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MADAME SAND 

A Biographical Comedy 



SOME BORZOI PLAYS AND 
BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE 



WAR 

by Michael Artzibashef 

MOLOCH 

by Beulah Marie Dix 

"MORAL" 

by Liidwig Thoma 

THE INSPECTOR-GENERAL 

by Nicolay Gogol 

HADDA PADDA 

by Godmimdur Kamban 

NJU 

by Ossip Dymow 

THE ART THEATRE 

by Sheldon Cheney 

FOUR PLAYS BY AUGIER 

Preface by Brieux 

MR. GEORGE JEAN NATHAN 
PRESENTS 

by George Jean Nathan 



MADAME SAND 

A Biographical Comedy 



BY 

PHILIP MOELLER 

I!- 
IVITH A FOREWORD BY MRS. FISKE AND 
AN INTRODUCTION BY ARTHUR HOPKINS 



"As I have never loved before . . . " 




NEW YORK : ALFRED A. KNOPF : 1917 



COPYRIGHT, 19 1 7, BY 
PHILIP MOELLER 
Published November ,1917 >► 



-51318 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OJ AMERICA 

©CI.A4798U9 



To 
MRS, FISKE 

for whom the play was written 

and to 

ARTHUR HOPKINS 
for whom I wrote the play 



KLAW & ERLANGER AND GEORGE C. TYLER 

Present 



S. FISKE 



—IN— 



A Three- Act Comedy by Philip Moeller. 
Under the direction of ARTHUR HOPKINS. 

THE PLAYERS 

(In the order of their appearance.) 

Rosalie , Jean Robb 

j Madame de Musset — Muriel Hope 

Paul de Musset ; Harold Hendee 

Casimir Dudevant , „..*.... Ben Lewin 

Euloz Walter Kingsford 

Heinrich Heine Ferdinand Gottschalk 

Alfred de Musset ...Jose Ruben 

Madame Julie Aurore Lucille Amandine Dudevant 

(George Sand) Mrs. Fiske 

Doctor Guiseppi Pagello .John Davidson 

Lucretia Violente. .Olin Field 

Mile. De Fleury Marjorie Hollis 

Mile. Rolande Imogen Fairchild 

Milt. De Latour Caroline Kohl 

Franz Liszt Owen Meech 

Frederic Chopin Alfred Cross 

Guests at the Reception of the Baron de Rothschild — 



PROGRAM OF FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE ACADEMY OF MUSIC, 
BALTIMORE, OCTOBER 29, 1917 



FOREWORD 

Onli^ one man has had the wit to paint Aurore 
Dudevant in a few swift words — Matthew Arnold. 

''She was like one of the early gods,^^ he said — or 
something like it. Only her own hundred odd hooks 
can give even a faint understanding of this amazing 
woman. Among all women — this creature of a thou- 
sand colors — grande dame and Bohemian — gamine 
and daughter of kings, souhrette and philosopher, 
pagan and religieuse, housefrau and mad lover, 
everyday hard worker and impassioned dreamer, 
simpleton and sage, po sense and farm woman, trag- 
edy queen and imp of mischief, Sihyl and "big child," 
everything that lives and burns and flames i/n man 
or woman, George Sand the generous, the kind, the 
simple. What she loved best in aU the world was 
kindness. 

Your incorrigibly brilliant and funny play, dear 
Mr. Moeller, reached me in the North Woods and I 
laughed and laughed and then when I had quite fin- 
ished laughing I set out to learn something of 
George Sand — something that would give me better 
understanding than my superficial knowledge of the 
earlier flamboyant novels — or the beautiful peasant 
stories. But to study your astonishing heroine is 

[7] 



FOREWORD 

like swimming in the ocean. Gather into yourself 
all your knowledge of all men, women and children 
— unfold your entire ''comedie humaine" and George 
will play every part for you. 

Something of all mankind is hers and in splendor. 
George who could cut the hair from her head to 
offer it at the feet of her lover. George who could 
mend furniture at four vn the morning. George who, 
cigar in hand, could "slip from the balcony window" 
and swagger along the darkened road for twenty 
odd miles in the summer storm. George who could 
harangue a nation as well as any man. George who 
could wait with her kind eyes watching for the '^little 
cat that comes to us over the roofs" — wonderful, 
wonderful George with the friendly smile almost al- 
ways playing around her lips. The friendly smile 
that Heine loved — ridiculous, priceless George. 

And as I came to know her more and love her 
more and more as the most flagrantly human crea- 
ture in history, I began to feel that we, you and I, 
were party to an act of unforgivable impertinence 
in our conspiracy to reveal your Aurora as we have 
revealed her. But this feeli/ng passed — and passed 
because I continued to know her more and more and 
love her more and more and in this ever increasing 
love and knowledge I know that in no other way can 
she be revealed. 

Minnie Maddern Fiske 



[8] 



INTRODUCTION 

In "Madame Sand" the author has brought us 
past lives free from the odor of camphor and the 
rattle of moth balls. His resurrection of famous 
characters is worked with a touch that brings them 
really to life. It is not the efficacy of the embalming 
fluid but the glow of life that he has breathed into 
them. 

The biographical drama usually has the vigor of 
an obituary. Instead of "Here Is" it is invariably 
"Here Lies." But not so with George and Alfred 
and Pagello and Chopin and all the others. They 
live and breathe and seek. And in their seeking we 
find all that is at once human and tragic. Can one 
feel that George is seeking liberty or is it liberation .f* 
Is it not the hungry reaching-out for some new con- 
tact that will explain all the mysteries of life.? Is it 
not the dissatisfied soul — not dissatisfied with what 
it has but with what it feels.? Is not the same quest 
for the unknown to be found in Alfred and Chopin 
and to a less degree in Pagello.? 

Are these not souls between mediocrity and great- 
ness who scoff at the conventions of one and are lost 
in the mazes of the other.? Is it not a form of 
growth, of casting off, of revolution? 

[9] 



INTRODUCTION 

In the sunset — by the sea — at the mountain peak 
— in a stranger's arms George is seeking — seeking 
what ? 

Perhaps Zoe Akins has found the answer. In her 
play "Baby Bunting" the deserted mother sings to 
her child, "Bye Bye, Baby Bunting, Daddy's gone 
a-hunting." The child asks "what for." The 
mother answers "God knows." 

God knows what tormented the restless George. 
Only a sensualist would think her scourge a physi- 
cal one. Only an angel would think it a spiritual 
one. So perhaps she hung half way between, a 
battle ground of conflicting desires, and in the con- 
flict was born all the expression she left behind. 

To the author rare credit must be accorded for 
bringing out so vividly the struggles — pathetic and 
comic — of George Sand, one of the great dissatis- 
fied. 

Arthub Hopkins 



[10] 



CHARACTERS 

Rosalie, Maid at Mme. Sand's. 

Paul de Musset, Alfred's brother. 

Mme. de Musset, Alfred's mother. 

Casimir Dudevant, Mme. Sand's husband. 

BuLOz, Editor of the Revue des Deux Mondes. 

Heinrich Heine, 

Alfred de Musset, 

Mme. Julie Aurore Lucille Amandine Dudevant 

— George Sand. 
Dr. Giuseppe Pietro Pagello, Mme.'s Italian 

Physician. 
LucREZiA VioLENTE, His Mistress. 
Mlle. de Fleury, 
Mlle. Rolande, 
Mlle. de Latour, 
Franz Liszt, 
Frederick Chopin, 

and 
Guests at the reception of Baron de Rothschild. 



The scenes are: 

Act I 

^ The farewell supper at Mme. Sand's apartment 
in the Quartier, Paris, 183S. 

Act 11 

Mme. Sand's apartment in Venice, 183^. 

Act in 

The reception for Chopin at Baron de Roths- 
child's, Paris. 



ACT I 

Rosalie's Omelet 



ACT I 

The Scene 

Mme. Sand's apartment in the Qwartier, Paris, 
1833. It is a large studio-like room. Through a 
long window in the rear one sees the roofs of the city 
and the streets beyond with the first lamps lit. In 
the far distance are the twin towers of Notre Dame. 
The room is a shrine of literary Bohemia. The fur- 
nishings are of bizarre incongruity. An ornate 
Japanese screen barely hides an old-fashioned rub- 
ber bathtub, an India chest shows its design of 
arabesque in the shadow of a bed couch near a piano 
of the period. In the window are several cages in 
which canaries are asleep. On the balcony is a sort 
of little conservatory enclosed in glass. About the 
place are truMks, half finished in the packing and 
clothes, hats and shawls are scattered about. Books 
are everywhere. In the center a table is set for sup- 
per. The place is dvm with candle light and shad- 
ows. The atmosphere is confused, that of an im- 
promptu feast on the brink of a sudden farewell, 
Rosalie, Mme. Sand's servant, a pretty blunt coun- 
try woman of about thirty, does not know that the 
curtain has risen. She is seated at Madame's writing 
desk and at the moment is deeply puzzled, attempt- 

[15] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

ing to read the fifth chapter of Madame's new novel 
which is piled in manuscript before her. She turns 
the leaves, one hy one, and is bored. The bell of the 
concierge jangles. She reads on. Again the jang- 
ling of the bell. The girl is oblivious. The canaries 
wake to a little shower of song^ then silence, then 
footsteps below im^ the streets. Rosalie mystified, 
turns another page. Madame doesn't write for such 
as she. A knock at the door. She jumps up, pushes 
the manuscript into the rear of the desk and 
opens the door to Paul and Mme. de Musset. Mme. 
DE Musset is an aristocrat, a mother of the old 
regime who never loses the quiet dignity of her man- 
ner even under the stress of intense emotion. Paul, 
the elder brother of a more famous brother, exists 
only in his own estimation. He hopes he is some- 
thi/ng of a gallant and doesn't for a moment doubt 
that he is a wit. 

Mme. de Musset. (Sinking into a chair) Those 
stairs ! Ah, my poor heart ! 

Paul. You took the four flights without stop- 
ping. 

Mme. de Musset. Do you think a mother ever 
stops when her son is in peril? 

Rosalie. {To Paul) Good evening, monsieur. 

Mme. de Musset. I am Mme. de Musset. Is 
Mme. Sand in? (She glances about the room) 

Rosalie. No. Madame is not at home. 

Mme. de Musset. (To Paul) Home! Why 
there is actually a bed in the dining room ! 
[16] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Paul. These artists think it is a waste of time 
to live in more than one room. 

Mme. de Musset- You might spare me these dis- 
gusting details. (Then to Rosalie) What time 
will Mme. Sand return? 

Rosalie. I do not know, Madame. 

Mme. de Musset. But you must know. I am 
Alfred de Musset's mother. 

Rosalie. He is kind to me. He gave me a hun- 
dred francs when my sister was careless — and — 

Mme. de Musset. Alfred! 

Paul. Mother, Alfred is not the papa of every 
bambino in Paris. (Then to Rosalie) You don't 
know when they are coming back? 

Rosalie. These days I know nothing. Every- 
thing is up-side down now that Madame is leaving. 

Mme. de Musset. Ah, my mother's instinct. I 
was right. So she is going when — -when? 

Rosalie. I do not know, because Madame does 
not know. On Monday I pack because Madame is 
leaving on Wednesday. On Wednesday I unpack 
because Madame is staying till Friday. On Friday 
I pack because Madame leaves on Saturday and 
on Sunday I unpack because Madame isn't going 
at all. 

Paul. You see, mother, there is no need to worry. 

Rosalie. And while I pack and unpack Madame 
sits writing, writing all the time. She never stops. 
I go to bed. At four in the morning I hear a noise. 
Madame wishes me, I say to myself. I come in. In- 

[17] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

stead of writing she is mending furniture. And 
then she goes out. One night I followed her. She 
leans on the walls of quays watching the river till 
the washer women come out and the sun's up. She's 
a queer one. All that scribbling has gone to her 
head. 

Mme. de Musset. Alone at five in the morning? 

Paul. Well, anyway, she is alone. 

Rosalie. Sometimes I try to read what she's 
written. I can't make it out. The words are too 
long. Sometimes she cries when she writes. 

(Mme. de Musset has been examining the 
room and at this moment she reaches the 
table) 

Mme. de Musset. The table is set. At what 
time do they dine.? 

Paul. They never dine in the Quartier. They 
only eat. (He enjoys this immensely) 

Mme. de Musset. Paul, how can you waste your 
time trying to be witty when Alfred is in danger. 
{Then to Rosalie) At what time is supper? 

Rosalie. Whenever Madame gets back. She or- 
ders dinner at six and it turns into supper at 
eleven. It makes no difference, nothing matters. 
Madame is busy writing. All the time writing, ex- 
cept when the gentlemen come. Dinner for break- 
fast, breakfast for lunch. She'll let her omelet cool 
while she scrawls her ten pages. Nothing matters 
as long as there's ink for Madame and plenty of 
cigars. It wasn't like this in the country. 
[18] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Mme. de Musset. (Amazed) Cigars! 

Rosalie. Black and long, twenty-five centimes. 
Now I must see to my tarts. Mons. Alfred likes 
theni. Call if you want me. (She goes out) 

Mme. de Musset. Except when the gentlemen 
come ! Cigars ! Five o'clock in the morning ! God 
help my boy. 

(She is walking in agitation about the 
room. She stops in front of the screen) 
Heavens, isn't this a bathtub.^ 

Paul. What could be more innocent than an 
empty bathtub .? Ha! Ha! 

Mme. de Musset. So this is her lair. 

(She runs her fingers over the top of the 
desk and lifts them covered with dust) 
She isn't very clean. So! In such a dusty place 
as this she snares men with her smiles. (She has 
reached the window) And look! (A tone of deep 
shame in her voice) In sight of Notre Dame. (She 
grows more excited) God grant I'm in time. 

Paul. You must keep calm, mother. 

Mme. de Musset. I am calm, Paul. I've been 
trained to control myself. Only peasants and lit- 
erary people give w^ay to their emotions. 

Paul. You shouldn't have come. 

Mme. de Musset. I do not regret it, even after 
having seen the place. I'll do my duty. She sha'n't 
take him with her. God give me strength. 

Paul. Hasn't he promised you he wouldn't go.^^ 

Mme. de Musset. Yes, but he will, unless I am by 

[19] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

to save him. She is his mistress — and I — am only 
his mother. 

Paul. If you had left it all to me. 

Mme. de Musset. As I did from the beginning 
and what has happened? Were you blind? When I 
asked you what was going on, you told me Alfred 
was looking well — my poor Alfred — and that 
Madame was only more intelligent than charming. 

Paul. You might think so yourself if you knew 
her. 

Mme. de Musset. Paul! 

Paul. Sometimes I envy Alfred. 

Mme. de Musset. My son! Have you forgot- 
ten I'm your mother? 

Paul. I don't think you'd better stay. 

Mme. de Musset. You were the elder. You 
should have known what would come of this. He 
was a most sensitive baby, a most fragile boy; and 
now at the beginning of his career, just when the 
great Hugo has praised his verses — she! she! My 
boy, my poor boy ! 

Paul. Why, you've never even seen the lady. 

Mme. de Musset. Yes, once in the Bois. She 
was driving with Alfred. I hid behind my sun- 
shade. She's a dragon decked in ribbons. God 
help him! 

Paul. Well — er — do you think she is the first 
woman that Alfred has — shall I say known? 

Mme. de Musset. (Defending her darling) No, 
Paul. How could one expect that from Alfred. 
[20] 



[Actt] MADAME SAND 

I can understand my son's having a mistress but 
let my son's mistress belong to my son. When my 
son belongs to his mistress it is time for his mother 
to descend from modesty and reticence. 

Paul. If you'd only given me a little longer. 

Mme. de Musset. They might have been on their 
way to Egypt and those dreadful crocodiles. My 
poor boy! (She weeps) 

Paul. What are you going to do.'' 

Mme. de Musset. Plead with her as a mother. 
She is a mother, isn't she? 

Paul. Heine says she was born a mother and 
that her dolls were her lovers. 

Mme. de Musset. Don't you ever bring that man 
to my house. These artists have been the ruin of 
Alfred. Are you to be the next.? 

Paul. You can't understand their sort. 

Mme. de Musset. Thank God for that. 

Paul. Mother, you're no match for her. 

Mme. de Musset. (Proudly) Why not, my son.? 

Paul. Because you're a lady and she's a woman. 

Mme. de Musset. I can descend. You think, 
don't you, that I know of nothing but my flowers 
and my old laces, — but life has taught me many 
things. 

Paul. A man must love, mother. Does it mat- 
ter whom? Love is only an affair of good evening, 
good morning — and good-bye. 

Mme. de Musset. Then he must say good-bye. 
{She sits down) 

[21] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

Paul. Do jou find it so pleasant here? 
Mme. de Musset. Pleasant ! Why the place 
reeks of Bohemia. 

Paul. (Taking up his hat) Then let's drive in 
the Bois. It will calm you. 

Mme. de Musset. For a little while. Perhaps 
the air will do me good. 

(Paul gives her his arm. They turn to- 
wards the door, Sudderdy she stops) 
But if they leave before we get back — 

Paul. Don't you see the table is set for supper? 
They are spiritual but they still have stomachs. 

(They have reached the door. Suddenly 
it flies open and Casimir Dudevant bursts 
in. He is ''fresh come^' from, Nohant and has 
been paying his respects to the Parisian 
cafes. He is rather handsome but not of an 
unusual sort, a mixture of the military and 
the country squire. At the moment he is a 
trifle unsteady) 
Casimir. (Politely but swayingly to Mme. de 
Musset) Good evening, Madame. 

Mme. de Musset. (Drawing back, half in dig- 
nity and half in fright) Another friend of Madame 
Sand ? 

Casimir. (With a deep tho tippling bow) No, 
Madame, not a friend. I am her husband. 

(And Paul and Madame de Musset are 
gone and Casimir from the top of the land- 
ing is waving them farewells. Then Rosalie 
[22] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

enters from the Mtchen with her dish of 
tarts. She doesnH see Dudevant who is now 
leaning against the wall in a corner near the 
door. A minute later and the girl is again 
engrossed vn the manuscript of Madame's 
Tiew booky "Valentine'') 
Casimir. (As he recognizes Rosalie) Good even- 
ing, my girl. 

Rosalie. How did you get in without ringing the 
bell? 

Casimir. I slipped by, my dear; because this 
morning when I asked below for Madame, my wife, 
he said no one was at home. And this afternoon 
again no one was at home, and when I said are you 
sure, he said he was sure, because Madame was 
never at home; and when I came again this evening 
(He sways a little) I couldn't bear to hear him re- 
peat himself, so I came right up. The door was open 
and here I am. 

Rosalie. Well, what do you want.? 

{He has been eyeing her as he used to at 
Nohant ) 
Casimir. First, I want to sit down. (And he 
does so) And now, have you a nice little glass of 
wine for my nice little stomach .^^ 

Rosalie. Another drop and you might spill over. 
Casimir. You haven't learned to talk like a Pari- 
sian. (He leans against the table) 

Rosalie. No, and I never wish to. Don't lean 
on that table cloth. It was clean three days ago. 

[23] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

Casimir. So then I'm in time for dinner — Ah, my 
poor little stomach. 

RosA]LiE. Get away from there. 

Casimir. If I weren't a gentleman, I mightn't like 
your tone. But I don't mind, I'm used to it. (Ro- 
salie turns away from hivi) I always like the swing 
of your hips, so I came up from Berri to get you. 
You can tell a horse by its flanks and a woman by 
the swing of her hips. (He comes nearer) 

RosAME. (More hotly) Get away! 

Casimir. So, so, and your hot little temper, too. 
Come here, my dear, I think I'd like to burn myself. 
(He steps nearer) 

Rosalie. None of that, I wasn't born yesterday. 

Casimir. Then thank God for to-day. Don't you 
like me-f^ 

Rosalie. No, I don't, and I never did. I wouldn't 
come within ten feet of you by choice. 

Casimir. Then I must take the first step. (Biit 
he -finds this difficult to do) Why don't you have 
sawdust on the floor? I can move much better in a 
stable. The city always makes me thirsty. (He 
begins singing) ''Horn sweet are the fields, the 
fields of clover." Stop looking at me like that. 

Rosalie. (Dodging him) What did you come 
here for.^^ 

Casimir. To tell Madame I don't like the way 
she's carrying on. Ain't I her husband.'^ I've come 
to take the census of her lovers, 
[24] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Rosalie. {Resentmg this) Get out of here or 
I'll call the concierge. 

Casimir. Is he one of them too? Ha! ha! Call 
until all the pretty angels listen, you can't budge 
me. (He tries to take her in his arms. She runs 
from him) 

Casimir. (Reeling a little) Come over here and 
kiss me. 

(He tries to get her into a corner) 
I've always wanted you. 

(He has crossed the room and is in front 
of George's desk) 
So here's where she scribbles. Fine, very fine. But 
she never thinks of me. (He takes up some sheets 
of the new manuscript) 
Rosalie. Let that alone. 

(She pushes him away from the desk and 
stands on guard) 
That cost Madame five sleepless nights. 

Casimir. And how many sleepless nights do you 
think Madame has cost me.^^ (He sings ''Your teeth 
are like dew in the roses.'*) I haven't forgotten you, 
my pet. 

(He lurches towards her and slips his arm 
around lier waist) 
Rosalie. (Shoving him away) You'd better get 
out of here before the gentlemen come. 

Casimir. Maybe I will and maybe I won't. I'll 
stay to see my darling. (And then very maudlin) 
I'm the father of her children, she's the mother of 

[25] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

mine. Nature, how wonderful is nature. She, me, 
then — they. One and one make — many. She is ill 
she writes to her mother, and I come up to Paris to 
see her and you, my pet. If she's ill, she needs me. 
(He weeps) Look at me, I'm a very worried hus- 
band. Kiss me, before my heart breaks. 

Rosalie. Get away, I'm too old for that sort of 
nonsense. I told you that long ago. 

Casimir. How do you know, my darling, until 
you've tried.? (He hums) "How innocent are the 
fields, the fields." 

Rosalie. Sh — be quiet! (His voice grows loud- 
er) Sh — some of the guests are coming. 

Casimir. Maybe they'll pity a poor wronged hus- 
band. 

Rosalie. They mustn't see you like this ; get out. 

Casimir. You want me to leave without seeing 
her.? What gentleman would do that.? (He again 
busts into melody) ''How sweet are the fields.''^ 

Rosalie. (Pushing him toward the kitchen) 
Sleep it off in my room, behind there. 

Casimir. Sleep, gentle sleep, how sweet are the 
fields. (He stops) But I must see Madame. 

Rosalie. Yes, yes, I'll tell her. She'll come in to 
you. Get out ! Get out ! 

(There is a sownd of footsteps on the stairs 
and Casimir barely tumbles into the kitchen 
as Rosalie opens the door for Buloz and 
Heine. Buloz is a sort of sublimated jour- 
nalist, terse, pat, with his eyes perpetually on 
[26] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

the literary chance. He is editor of The Re- 
vue des Deua? Mondes and finds Madame's 
'*stuff*^ an attractive feature. Heine is a 
tense, wanderi/ng soul who has drifted to the 
spiritual haven of Paris. Distinguished, 
keen, — he is dynamic even in unessentials. 
BuLoz. I almost knocked you over, Heine. 
Heine. I was finishing this on the last landing. 
I've been half an hour coming up. Each floor I read 
a few pages. {He looks at an open book in his 
hand) She writes like water tumbling from a pump. 
Some day her words will flood the boulevards and 
Paris will be drowned. 

Rosalie. Good evening, gentlemen, Madame will 
be back soon. 

BuLoz. Good evening, Rosalie. ( Then to Heine) 
Whenever George finishes a new book, I kiss Rosalie 
and sometimes she kisses me. It's a sensible arrange- 
ment. (Then to Rosalie) When Madame leaves, 
would you like to come and cook for me? 
Rosalie. No, sir; I'm a respectable girl. 
BuLOZ. (Ana:iously) They're leaving to-night, 
aren't they? 

Rosalie. I don't know. One day she's going, the 
next she ain't. 

(Casimir's voice is heard singing in the 
kitchen) 
Rosalie. Ah! I haven't washed the endive. 

{The voice becomes more distinct — "The 
field of cl — o — ver^*) 

[27] 



MADAME SAND [Actl] 

Heine. How sweetly the salad sings. 

(Rosalie exits. Heine has reached the 
table) 

Heine. Seven candles. That's for luck, but I 
thought George was giving this farewell supper to 
commemorate her parting from Alfred. 

BuLOZ. The bulletins differ. But we'll surely 
know before morning. 

Heine. If his mother interferes it will be difficult 
for George. A woman can do what she wants with 
a man until another woman knocks at the door. 
Then the Gods bend down to listen, knowing the odds 
are even. 

BuLoz. There's the real danger. Tho he doesn't 
know it, he still obeys his mother. She has written 
George threatening to prevent it. 

Heine. And George.? 

BuLOZ. She's distracted with uncertainty. I've 
had five letters since noon. The first dark despair. 
Alfred has again given his word to his mother. He 
won't go. (He takes a packet of letters from his 
pocket) The third is cryptic. What do you make 
of this.? (He reads) ''Night, Nubian night, but a 
skylark still soars in my heart." 

Heine. Rather confining for the skylark. 

BuLOZ. Then the fourth — again abject misery. 
Written on the back of a menu of the Cafe de Soleil. 
She contemplates suicide. 

Heine. Everybody does since "Werther." She'll 
probably live till ninety. 
[28] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

BuLoz. (Glancing at the paper) She regrets 
the river is frozen near the quays. Every week, 
every hour, they decide to part — but the fire of hope 
bums eternal. 

Heine. (An echo of bitterness in his voice) Till 
fate chokes the flame with the douche of disillusion. 

BuLOZ. You're still young enough to be a pessi- 
mist ? 

Heine. Pessimism is my spiritual purge. How 
else can I keep my soul clean in this filthy world.'' 
My faith is the faith of to-morrow. I'm a Jew by 
birth, a Christian by necessity and an atheist by 
conviction. (He glances at the table) Changeably 
religious — but always hungry. When will they be 
back .? 

BuLoz. Here's her last note. They are going to- 
gether to the top of Notre Dame, to say farewell in 
the sunset. 

Heine. Pinnacles are her obsessions. But she'll 
come down. Bed's the great leveler. Can't you see 
them, Buloz.'' Here's Madame preparing for the 
lover's leap. The last farewell has driven them to 
madness. There's de Musset peeping over the para- 
pets, — wondering just where they'll bump first. And 
the gargoyles with their granite hearts, — hideous be- 
cause they are doomed to grin forever, — ^leer in 
silence lest their laughter should shake the turrets 
when George again nobly renounces death. (Then 
bitterly) Ah, Buloz, beware of this love of ours. 
It is our enemy, most selfish, most subtle, and most 

[29] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

sinister. What time does the coach start for 
Lyons ? 

BuLoz. At nine from the Post Hotel. 

Heine. (Looking at his watch) Nearly eight. 
They'll be here in ten minutes. Supper in fifteen. 
Haste may outwit his loving and too watchful moth- 
er. They've tasted love and drunken, they know not 
they are drunk. Then, Italy — Italy, where golden 
youth lies sleeping in the shadow of the centuries. 
Italy and dreams — and then some rainy morning, — 
the awakening. 

BuLoz. They must go. Think what it means to 
me. 

Heine. You ? 

BuLOz. I've signed with her for five years. My 
subscriptions have been falling off. I needed just 
her sort of copy to boost them. Nothing sells like 
love. 

Heine. Except a liaison. 

BuLOZ. Exactly. 

Heine. (Musimgly) And if they should awake 
too soon and suffer 

BuLoz. (Laconic alii/) I count on that. Pa- 
thetic relief — the contrast of tears. 

Heine. There's a thought to make an essay. 

BuLoz. Send it to me fjrst. I'll print it in The 
Revue. 

Heine. (Half to himself) Some must suffer that 
others may sup. Socially, spiritually, everywhere, 
[30] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

always true — paying the toll to life — that others 
may sup. 

BuLoz. That ought to make, say, seven thousand 
words. Large type that means, shall we say — er — 
twenty pages? 

Heine. (Tempering his scorn with a smile) You 
journalistic Judas. For thirty new subscriptions 
you would sell your soul. 

BuLoz. (Oblivious) Or perhaps twenty-two 
pages. We can expect something from de Musset, 
too. 

Heine. Of course. He has a splendid past ahead 
of him, and besides he's a poet — a poet soaked in 
absinthe and dried in moonshine. But he needs more 
rust in his blood. 

BuLOz. (Dryly) And you.? 

Heine. I'm perfect where I am, Buloz, but not 
quite finished. Don't misjudge me. I'm not as mod- 
est as I sound, — ^but hungrier. 

(Rosalie rushes in from the kitchen) 

Rosalie. A cab has stopped in the courtyard. 
(She begins lighting the candles. Then to Buloz) 
Don't let her start writing again till dinner's served. 

Buloz. (Aruciously) Not if we can help it. 

Heine. But if Calliope descends 

Rosalie. Another of those actor people.? Put 
her out and remember the omelet. (She leans out 
of the window) Yes, it's them, it's them. Madame 
is helping Monsieur out. Madame is paying the 
driver. Monsieur Alfred is coming up. He'll be so 

[31] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

tired and so hungry. She's most likely been telling 
him novels all day. He's been so good to me. (And 
she rums into the hitchen) 

Heine. And how long do you think this affair 
will last, my friend? 

BuLoz. How long? Does that matter if the copy 
is good? 

{And Alfred stands m the doorway, a 
poety an aristocrat and something of a dandy. 
His glance is firm, his red lips half open. He 
is fragile and fine with that exquisite delicacy 
of virility, so irresistible to women) 
Alfred. {In the doorway) My friends! My 
friends ! So you have come to say good-bye and I 
have come to say good-bye. I am giving up forever 
(BuLoz starts) the most beautiful companion that 
man has ever known. (Rosalie enters) Rosalie, a 
glass of wine. {He drinks it and sinks into a chair) 
See my people for me. I cain't face them now. I 
might' curse my mother whom I would die to save 
from suffering. {His head drops in his hands) 
Buloz, you see my brother and say good-bye for me, 
and you, Heine, because your style is rarer, you see 
my mother and tell her I bless her and will pray for 
her and will write her when my wound is healed. 
BuLoz. {Low, to Rosalie) Bring the soup. 
Alfred. I'm so tired. George almost carried 
me up the last turn of the tower. Paris was like a 
fading print below us. Half-way up we saw two 
lovers embracing in a window. 
[32] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Heine. Life is a see-saw and love swings the 
plank. Up and down, up and down. 

Alfred. Till we slip, and the blind little worms 
are waiting. On the top of the tower verses came 
to me. I called them "The Blind." Where's the ab- 
sinthe.? Listen. (He pulls out his cuff and hegms 
reading the lines he has composed and which he has 
scrawled on his linen) 

"The nightingale empassioned wounds his heart to 
sing. 
Whilst in the perfumed shade of roses mating. 
Love bursts to blossom each new bud of spring. 
But death, dim death, with scythe in hand stands 
waiting." 

(RosAME, enraptured in spite of herself, 

stands in the door to the kitchen. Heine 

looks at BuLOz, who, on tiptoes, goes over to 

her) 

BuiiOZ. {Whispering aside to RosAiiiE) I told 

you to bring the soup. (And she goes out) 

Alfred. That's death's victory and life's defeat. 
We are the blind. 

Heine. We ostriches sticking our heads in the* 
sands of hope. 

(And at this moment enters George — the 
hrilliant, sumptuous, ridiculous hut conquer- 
ing George. Sh^ is never sentimental, never 
I sententious, never conscious of her exuher- 

[33] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

ance or her exaggerations ; mistress of every- 
thing hut her emotions which, tho she thinks 
she masters, master her. The men listenmg 
to Alfred do not see her) 
Alfred. {Turning over his cuff, goes on with his 
reading) 

"Upon the moon-white waters glides the lonely swan, 
The willows bend — (He stops, looks at the other 
side of his cuff, then back, then to the other cuff) 

Alfred. {Slightly embarrassed repeats the last 
lime) 

"The willows bend" — ahem — eh — ( There is a pause) 
I must have stopped writing. 

{And then George steps forward and 
speaks very simply in spite of her emotion) 
George. You did, Alfred, because at that very 
moment we said good-bye forever. {Again Buloz 
starts) We were born but to say good-bye. 

{There is a danger that the moment may 
become unbearably sublime, but Rosalie op- 
portunely arrives with the steaming tureen) 
Rosalie. Here's the cream of onions, Madame. 
BuLOz. {Sniffing) Supper at last. 
George. {To Buloz) Is your stomach more 
important than our souls .^^ 
Heine. No ! But emptier. 

{And the romantic spell is broken, and 
greetings are exchanged) 
George. {To Buloz) Did you get all my let- 
ters? {Then to Heine) Don't be too bitter to- 
[34] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

night. I always mistrust you pessimists. Far down 
you're apt to be so sweet. Look deep enough in 
tears there's laughter, and deep enough in laughter, 
tears. Ah, well! Let's be gay. Tho we feast on 
the brink of a precipice I shall smile. One must 
either smile — or die. 

{During this speech they have taken their 
places at the table) 

Alfred. Where's the absinthe .f^ 

George. Not too much, Freddo, you'll get drowsy 
and I can't let you sleep here to-night. I've got to 
unpack and finish five chapters. 

BuLOZ. (Eagerly) Five chapters to-night.'' 

George. Perhaps six. I'm very tired. (She 
looks lovingly at Alfred) My soul has been sapped 
to-day but I must work. That's the one way of for- 
getting. Six chapters — and I haven't yet planned 
the fourth. (She sits for a moment in deep thought 
eating radishes) I'll bring in this farewell supper. 
Why not, why not, I ask you.'' My stories are the 
mirror of my life. Tho I write with my heart's 
blood, still I must write. This supper will make 
chapter five. (She starts improvising) After the 
opera this little farewell feast. Bitter herbs and 
tears. (She begins eating the onion soup as she 
talks) For weeks, Olivia has refused to see Ray- 
mond, but that night at the opera to the divine 
strains of Donizetti their eyes have met. (She leans 
towards Heine) Have you ever tasted such superb 
onion soup.'' Where was I? (A moment and then 

[35] 



MADAME SAiSfD [Act I] 

she recaptures her theme) Ah ! jes ! Raymond has 
left his box and come over to Olivia's. Her hair is 
dark as night in the Apennines. (Then very sadly) 
We might have seen the Apennines, Freddo — if 

Alfred. "If" is the epitaph on the tomb of op- 
portunity. 

George. {Patting his hand) Never mind, dear. 
We must be brave. (Another loving glance and then 
she goes on with her story) There in the shadow of 
her box, whilst the melting music woos the stars. 
(Suddenly she jumps up from the table and brings 
paper, ink and pen from her writing desk. Writing, 
she repeats) Whilst the melting music woos the 
stars — charming phrase, isn't it.f' — There is a hur- 
ried conversation. Yes, she will go to his apart- 
ments, that very night for their last supper together. 
Theirs and — ours, Freddo, — ours. (She chokes 
back a sob) 

Heine. (The tension getting on his nerves) You 
might open the window, Rosalie. 

George. (Continuing) She has ordered her 
coachman to drive thru the Bois. She must think, 
her brain pulses like Vesuvius. (She gives a quick 
glance in Alfred's direction. He sits sadly examin/- 
ing the bottom of his empty glass. She goes on) 
Vesuvius. Passion masters her. Where are the 
olives, Rosalie.'' (She continues) It has begun to 
rain. She leans from the window. The great drops 
wound her brow. (She makes a note of this) Yes, 
[36] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

she will go to Raymond, but^ — to say farewell. That 
ought to be a good ending for chapter four. 
Heine. Yes, very. If it ends there. 
George. Chapter five. Her husband has been 
hunting tigers in the Pyrenees. 

BuLoz. But are there any tigers in the Pyrenees.? 
George. What difference does that make.? Aren't 
there giraffes in the zoo.? 

(Bui.oz consoles himself with his fish) 
George. ( Unruffled) Her husband, whilst hunt- 
ing tigers — (A glance at Buloz) Is the salmon 
nice and fresh ? ( Then she goes on) Whilst hunting 
tigers has been wounded. Chapter five brings him 
back to Paris. At an inn on the way he has seduced 
Carmella, a peasant girl. 

BuLOz. {Methodically) Of course 1 
Heine. Is there a peasant girl in Europe that 
hasn't been seduced.? 

George. (Undisturhed) He brings with him a 
Spanish dagger, bought at Burgos. 

A1.FRED. (Catching her spirit) From a stall 
near the sunburnt cathedral. 

George. Sunburnt cathedral — that's a charming 
phrase, Freddo. (She jots it down) 
Alfred. (Playfully) Plagiarist. 
George. (Fatting his hand) Darling. He ar- 
rives at his home. It is past midnight. Madame is 
out. In her boudoir he finds Raymond's handker- 
chief. He recognizes the crest. Meanwhile, the lov- 
ers are at supper. How do you like it, Buloz.? 

[37] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

BuLoz. That's just the place to announce the 
next instalment. 

Alfred. Why have we decided to part.? 

George. We ? 

Alfred. I might have persuaded you to give up 
writing novels. 

BuLoz. Nonsense ! 

Alfred. Then think of the blissful life we might 
have led together philosophising under all the chest- 
nut trees in Europe. {He takes her hand) 

George. {Looking deep into his eyes) We must 
learn to live alone, Freddo — alone. {She presses his 
hand to her lips) 

(BuLOz sits watching them) 

Heine. {Aside to Buloz) Don't worry, she 
won't stop writing. Every novel to George is a new 
love aifair. She always sees them thru to the end. 

George. But you mustn't interrupt me, Freddo. 
{Then choking back her sobs) I call him Freddo 
because we were going to Italy together. Where 
was I? {Recalling) The rain has ceased. 

{There is a slight disturbance in the 
kitchen^ 

Buloz. {At the door) Sh — be quiet. Madame 
is composing. 

Rosalie. {Sticking her head in, rather excited) 
I'm beating the eggs for the omelet. {She closes the 
door) 

George. {By mistake sprinkling her salmon with 
[38] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

sugar) They are out on the veranda together in the 
moonlight. 

Alfred. What would the romantic movement do, 
if it weren't for the moonlight. 

BuLoz. That's sugar, George, not salt. 

George. (Oblivious) She has come to say fare- 
well, but poor, weak woman, she has forgotten the 
feud twixt flesh and spirit. — ^We are but marionettes 
hung from the nimble fingers of the Gods. 

Heine. (Looking up quickly as he breaks his 
bread) Yes, all of us! We jig at the end of the 
wires, poets and cooks, saints and grisettes — hung 
from the nimble fingers of the Gods. All, all of us — 
even you, George, — even you! 

George. You mustn't break in with your Ger- 
manic philosophies. (Then as she turns to Alfred, 
slightly wetting her lips with her tongue) There 
in the pungent odors of the night they melt into each 
other's arms. And Olivia turns only to see her hus- 
band standing in the room. 

(And this is only too true, for the noise 
outside has im^cr eased, and at the next mo- 
ment, Casimir bursts vn from the kitchen^ bot- 
tle in hand. The men jump up) 

George. (Quite calmly) Oh, you! Wait a min- 
ute, please. (Then unperturbed, she goes on with 
her story) Olivia, trembling like a lily in the wind 
(She is writing this all down) throws herself between 
the men as the Burgos blade (A loving glance at 
Alfred) bought from a stall near the sunburnt 

[39] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

cathedral, — ^flashes in the moonlight. (She dots the 
sentence and turns to Casimie) 

George. And now, what do you want.? 
Casimir. (Leering) You. I want you to come 
back to the country, my dear. I've no one to talk 
to, your mother's too old and the servants each has 
each. 

(He comes towards her. Alfred inter- 
cepts hvm) 
Alfred. Don't you dare come near this lady. 
Casimir. Eh.? 

(Heine goes over to the window and stands 
there calmly smoJdng. The others are all 
excited except George, who sits quietly fin- 
ishing her salmon. Rosalie peeps thru the^ 
door) 
Alfred. Get out of here, you're drunk. 
Casimir. (Lurching forward) Ain't I her bro- 
ken-hearted husband? (He begins to weep) She's 
mine by law. 

George. Have you come up from Nohant to 
teach me the law? 

Casimir. You still talk just like a man, Aurora. 
You haven't changed at all, but you're a wee bit 
fatter, my dear, — a wee bit fatter. 

George. (Really resenting this) Nonsense, Cas- 
imir. (And then very significantly, as she glances 
towards the door) Good-evening, now. These three 
gentlemen are my friends. 
[40] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Casimir. Friends, Aurora? Isn't that a fancy 
way of putting it? 

(He pats Rosalie on the cheek and begins 
singing ''How sweet are the fields'' ) 
Rosalie. (To George) He was after me at No- 
hant, too. That's why I came with you. He was 
awful bad and tho you're kind of queer, I knew it 
would be better with you and anyhow I'd be safe in 
Paris. 

Casimir. (Lyricallif) "The — fields — of — cl — oo 
— o — ^ver." 

Heine. So he was the singing salad ! 
Rosalie. I tried to keep him in there till you'd 
gone, because you told me this morning you'd surely 
be leaving for Venice to-night. 

(There is a quick glance exchanged he- 
tmeen Heine and Buloz. General consterna- 
tion is imminent, but George is ready) 
George. (Sweetly and with a swooning look at 
Alfred) But since then so much has happened. 

(Trustingly he takes her hand. Heine 
comes down to Buloz) 
Heine. (Aside to Buloz) I can't let these do- 
. mestic scenes spoil my supper. (He sits down and 
"begins to eat) 

Casimir. (To Alfred) Let go that lady's hand. 
Alfred. Keep away or I'll throw you out of the 
window. 

Casimir. You will? (He roars with laughter) 
You will, — you, with your pale face and your hair 

[41] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

like a woman's? I'm a soldier, young man, do you 
know I'm a soldier? 

(Alfred steps threateningly towards hvm) 

George. {Calmly) You'd better go now, Casi- 
mir, — {And then pointing it with smiling delicacy) 
before these gentlemen show you the way. The stairs 
are very steep, my friend. {Then she turns to 
Heine) Have some more salmon, do. 

Casimir. {Nastily) Look here, I've had enough 
of your cooing voice! Ain't you my wife? 

George. I have as much respect for our mar- 
riage contract as I have for you. The day you took 
the whip into your hands, I took the law into mine. 

Casimir. {Cowering) Wives don't talk that way. 

George. Then it's time they did. I don't want 
you, I don't need you. {And then ever so sweetly) 
Are you going now? 

Casimir. {Reaching the door and stopping) I 
can't leave, I can't. 

(BuLoz«7z J Alfred step forward, George, 
with a gentle smile on her face, sits watchimg 
the scene) 

Casimir. You see — well — er — I 

George. Is it money, my dear? 

Casimir. {Brightening) Just like you, Lucy. 
Sooner or later you get to the point. The fact is — 
{He reels) I lost a few francs at my inn. He had 
cross-eyes, Lucy. Never gamble with a cross-eyed 
man, — and now I've nothing to take me to Nohant. 

George. {Going to her desk) Here are twenty 
[42] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

francs. (And then to Bui.oz) Advance me a hun- 
dred, Buloz. So, — a hundred and twenty and you — 
(She turns to Heine) What do you add to get rid 
of this nuisance? That makes nearly two hundred. 
Rosalie, lend me ten francs. (Which the girl takes 
from her stocking) 
Alfred. And I.'' 

George. (Modestly/) No, no; not that. Could 
I borrow from 2/ou to get rid of a husband .^^ 
Alfred. If it means your happiness. 
George. (Melting) Well, since you put it so 
beautifully. 

(And unwillingly she takes the money and 
gives it to Casimir) 
George. Good-bye. Don't stop to thank us. 

(Casimir takes the money, and stuffing it 

vn his pocket, agavn reaches the door, and 

again stops) 

Casimir. I might have forgotten, Aurora, if my 

hand hadn't got to my pocket. (He takes out a 

crumpled piece of paper) Maurice sent you this. 

(He gives her a little water-color drawing) 

(George's whole manner changes. All the 

mother in her weUing up at the thought of 

Maurice) 

George. My little darling. How is he, Casimir.'' 

Is he well.f^ Does he blow his nose nicely.'' Is he 

kind to mother.'' Kiss him for me. (Casimir steps 

towards her, Alfred again threateningly intercept- 

ing him) 

[43] 



MADAME SAND {Act I] 

Casimlr. {StuTTihling hack) To think that I 
should live to see the day when my wife sits at table 
with murderers and long-haired swine. You've 
broken my heart, Aurora. 

(^And singing "Horn fair are the fields,''^ he 
reels down the stairs. There is am,< embar- 
rassed silence) 
George. {Lifting the gloom) My friends, don't 
take this too seriously. What does a husband mat- 
ter? He is an incident all married women should 
forget. {Then reminiscently) My marriage began 
what might have ended happily. {She smiles wanly 
at Alfred) What might have ended happily, 
Freddo, if fate had willed it. 

Alfred. Fate is our enemv. We are born to 
defeat. 

George. {Fervidly) What have I now to live 
for, but my children and my dreams? To-day I 
have lacerated my soul on the altars of renuncia- 
tions. {A poignant glance at Alfred) Life called 
us and we turned away. 

Alfred. How can I leave you to face the possi- 
bilities of such another scene? You have suffered 
and you have borne in silence. There are tears in 
your eyes. 

George. {Resignedly) My friend, do not hope 
to dry them. I must weep lest my heart break. 

{She looks imploringly thru the ceiling as 
tho trying to see Gody then she rushes over 
to the piano y she begins to play a sad lament , 
[44] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

m a desolate minor key. Then a few chords^ 
arpeggios y and she begins chanting) 
"The nightingale impassioned wounds his heart to 
sing, 
Whilst in the perfumed shade of roses mating." 
BuLoz. {To Rosalie, who stands listening) Go 
and get the omelet. 

Rosalie. The eggs are beat. 
Heine. (With an apprehensive glance towards 
the piano as Rosalie goes out) And put plenty of 
rum in it. 

(And then to Buloz) 
You shouldn't have brought me here. I can't 
stand music while I'm eating. 

BuLOz. Honestly, I didn't count on this sort of 
thing. 

Alfred. {Tenderly to George) You have re- 
membered my poor verses. 

George. Are they not seared in my soul.'' 

{More arpeggios. Then thru her sohs she 
continues her chant) 
"Love burst to blossom each new bud of spring. 
But death — {a chord, two chords, three chords) 

Dim death with scythe in hand stands " 

{She can't finish the line. She throws her- 
self into Alfred's arms. A passionate ern- 
brace. Then she rushes from him over to the 
window. It is nicely timed, the moon is ris- 
ing. Swiftly she opens one of the bird cages 
and takes out one of the canaries) 

[45] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

George. (In an ecstasy) At least there shall be 
one free thing answering the winds of desire. (She 
sets the bird free) Let him fly into the dawn. 
BuLOZ. Him? How does she know it's a him.^ 
Heine. In such matters she is infallible. 

(There is a tableau at the window. The 
music f the moonlight and the flight of the bird 
have been too much for Alfred. He leans 
sobbing against the window frame. George 
is watching him. Then suddenly he reels 
about) 
Alfred. No ! no ! I shall not sacrifice two souls 
to duty. 

Heine. (Dryly) As I thought. He is begin- 
ning to realize that virtue is its own disappointment. 
(George and Alfred are vn each o therms 
arms. A passionate embrace thru which 
Heine and Buloz speak) 
Heine. Don't you think we had better go into 
the kitchen .f^ 
Buloz. Why.? 

Heine. I am being pushed into the corner. 
Nothing fills a room like love. (A sigh from the 
lovers) When do you think it will be finished? 

Buloz. (With an apprehensive glance towards 
George and Alfred) What? The kiss? 

Heine. (With an eager look in the direction of 
the kitchen) No. The omelette. 

(A moment later and Alfred in a rapture 
swings George toward the open imndow) 
[46] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Alfred. Listen, over the rumble of the city love 
is calling ! Beyond the roofs of Paris lie the radiant 
valleys of the south! 

Heine. Splendid eye-sight, hasn't he? The heart 
sees all. 

Aleeed. You love me, George.'' 

George. (Mysteriously/) As I have never loved 
before. 

Alfred. (^Lyrically) There is a higher right 
than duty, my adored one. Let us not hesitate. 
Love is calling. Italy and the waiting years. Italy,, 
where one drinks oblivion in a moment's ecstasy. 

George. {In a sort of vision) Italy! — The 
moon is rising in my heart. {A trill of song from 
the canaries.) Listen! That is the music of the 
serenata. The night is waiting. We are at the 
gates of Eden. 

Alfred. Then let us enter in. 

Heine. At the very gates. What if they should 
slip ? 

{A sound comes up from the street. 
Voices, laughter. It is Paris, not Italy. 
Suddenly George awakes) 

George. (Her voice gone gray) And your 
mother? 

Alfred. She is dead to me. Let us escape from 
the shadow of her tomb. 

George. (Barely controlling her triwmphant 
satisfaction) Alfred, my own, I have been waiting. 

[47] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

{A gam they are in each other's arms as 
Rosalie arrives with the omelet) 
George. Quick! My bags, my trunks, my 
shawls, my manuscripts ! 

{Then foUows a scene of intense confusion, 

all of them running about to get the traps 

ready while Heine, undisturbed, sits eating) 

George. Hurry, Rosalie, my bonnet! 

Rosalie. The new one with the broad brim which 

you bought for Italy? 

George. Yes, hurry, hurry. 

(BuLOz is out of breath strapping the 
bags. Supper is forgotten. Alfred is no 
help. He is in the way; every moment insist- 
ing on clasping George to his bosom. Soon, 
however, they are ready) 
BuLOZ. You go by way of Avignon.^ 
George. Yes — but first a stop at Lyons to see 
Stendahl. 

Alfred. (Remonstratingly) But he will talk 
to us all night. 

George. No. He will dance for us in his Rus- 
sian boots. And then the sea. 

Heine. (As he takes the last olive) Yes. We 
are all of us afloat. 

George. (Her voice aflame) Ah, my friends, 
life is meant to be squandered. Buloz, Heine, fare- 
well, farewell. I'll write — I'll write. 

(Then general embracing. For a moment 
the lovers stand bathed in the moonlight that 
[48] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

floods the room. Confused voices: ''Good- 
bye, farewell, Italy, life, love, etc., etcJ** 
They turn to leave. Suddenly there is a 
knock at the door. Rosalie looks up. She 
hesitates. Then she goes to the door. In a 
moment she is back) 
Rosalie. (Furtively) There is a lady to see 
you, Madame. 

George. (Gayly) Tell her I am dying of love 
and can see no one. 

RosAiiiE. She's been here before. 
George. I never turn a beggar from my doors. 
Buloz, give me twenty francs. 

Rosalie. ( Vainly trying to warn her) She came 
in a carriage. 

George. I've no objection. Let her drive back 
in it. 

(The knock is repeated. Timidly Rosalie 
opens the door and Mme. de Musset and 
Paul enter.) 
Alfred. Mother ! 

Mme. de Musset. (Who with quiet dignity has 
arisen to the occasion) Alfred! 

Buloz. (Under his breath) Mme. de Musset! 
Mme. de Musset. (With gentle courtesy) Par- 
don this late intrusion, Madame. I see I disturb 
you at dinner. (And then, pointing the facts with 
delicacy, but with a will behind it) I thought my 
son might be leaving and would care to drive home- 
with me. 

[49] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

(A tense moment. The literary history of 
France hangs in the balance, and then Mme. 
DE MussET hrilUantly comss to the rescue) 
Mme. de Musset. {With sudden inspiration) 
Delightful weather for December? 
Heine. {Dryly) It always is. 
BuLoz. {Clearing his throat) Hem! 
Mme. de Musset. {Quietly hut -firmly) Well, 
Alfred.? 

AiiFRED. Please, mother, let's avoid a scene. 
Mme. de Musset. I've spent most of my life do- 
ing that, my son. {She glances at George) Are 
you coming, Alfred.? 

Alfred. I — I must speak to you. 
Mme. de Musset. It will be very quiet in the car- 
riage. Paul can take a cab. {And then, with a note 
of graceful condescension, she turns to George) 
Madame, I hope I find you well.? 

{And then equally sweetly, George, who 

mentally has been aiding destiny, answers 

her) 

George. I'm well, Madame, I thank you, very, 

but won't you and your son finish supper with us.? 

We've but just begun. 

RosAME. {Cheerily) Yes, the omelet just fin- 
ished. Have some. Monsieur Paul. It's the kind 
you like. 

{Paul involuntarily steps towards the 
table) 
[50] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Mme. de Musset. Paul! (Then to George) 
Thank you, Madame, but I've already supped. But 
we are keeping you so long from table. Come, Al- 
fred, have you forgotten that you promised to read 
your new verses to your sister's friends, this even- 
ing.'' (She steps towards the door) A thousand 
apologies for my intrusion. Good-evening, Madame ; 
good-evening, gentlemen. Come, my sons. 

(Paul is at his mother's side. All eyes are 

on Alfred. He steps towards the rack 

where he has hung his cape and hat. A pause. 

Then George takes the reins) 

George. Madame, will you permit me to speak 

to you alone .P 

Mme. de Musset. I doubt, Madame, if there is 
anything that we have to say to each other. 

George. (Significantly) Butterflies are fragile. 
Shall we bruise them on the anvils of our rashness? 
Mme. de Musset. (Slightly mystified) Pardon 

me, Madame, but 

George. Gentlemen, you will excuse us. There 
are things that we women say to each other that you 
men can never know. Don't go into my bedroom, if 
you please. The bed is tossed. 

(And Rosalie and the gentlemen go off 
leaving the candle-lit battle-field to George. 
Throughout the following scene her tone 
varies. One moment she is soft and feminine, 
the next masculine and dominant! 

[51] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

George. And now we can have a nice cozy chat 
together. Do sit down. 

Mme. de Musset. (Stiffly) Thank you. (Bwt 
she remains standing) 

George. (Lightly) As you please. 

(And George, turning a chair about, seats 
herself at the table) 

George. (Offering Mme. de Musset a cigarette) 
Will you smoke? 

Mme. de Musset. That is one of the things, Ma- 
dame, that I leave to men. 

George. (Pleasantly) That's the mistake we 
women make. We leave too much to the men. We 
bury our souls in satin, and they take advantage of 
our weakness. Perhaps you would prefer a cigar, 
Madame. 

Mme. de Musset. (A gasp) No, Madame. 

George. After breakfast I cannot live without 
my cigar. The odor is so delicious mixed with my 
rose geraniums. (She sniffs) Is there anything in 
the world so redolent as the odor of rose geraniums, 
— or perhaps you prefer jasmine.'^ But it's too late 
for jasmine. 

Mme. de Musset. (Involuntarily sitting down) 
Madame, do you think I came here to talk botany .f' 

George. (Tensely) No, Madame. You came 
to do what God alone can do, to command two peo- 
ple to cease loving each other. Do you think you 
can do that, Madame.^ Since the beginning of time 
all nature has been preparing for this love of ours — 
[52] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Alfred's and mine. The stars are in their allotted 
places so that we might love. 

Mme. de Musset. I know nothing about astron- 
omy. 

George. (Oblivious) Eden first bloomed so that 
we might love. (She has stretched across the table 
and has reached her ink and pen and paper, and in 
the shadow of the sugar bowl, is jotting down the 
phrases that particularly appeal to her) Abel slew 
Cain — er — er — so that we might love. Since the re- 
motest hint of time, fate has willed it. Are you God, 
Madame.? Can you toy with destiny.? 

Mme. de Musset. Pardon me, but I cannot un- 
derstand this literature you speak. 

George. You call my words literature.? No, in- 
deed, Madame, they are the burning truth, — a truth 
you cannot understand. You have lived too long in 
your damask-dusty world where the blinds are al- 
ways drawn whilst I, — I have cut my flesh on the 
thorns. Do you know what my life has been? 

Mme. de Musset. No, that I do not presume to 
know. I do not wish to know. It will not move me ; 
my son shall not go with you. What would become 
of him? 

George. He would enter the glorious kingdom 
hand in hand with the woman he loves. Do you dare 
deny him that? Can God,— God who is love be 
watching this? 

Mme. de Musset. Madame, spare me this melo- 

[53] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

drama. You are right. I have lived a guarded and 
what you would call a narrow life, but in that old- 
fashioned, ridiculous seclusion at which you scofF I 
have learned to respect tradition. 

George. (Tensely/) Need is the only tradition 
I acknowledge. 

Mme. de Musset. Alfred will not go with you. 
He has given me his word. He is a gentleman. 

George. Ah, yes. It takes generations to make 
a gentleman, but it takes only one man to make a 
generation. I am helping to make mine because I 
am free. He, too, must be free. Do not fetter a 
falcon lest he break his chains. 

Mme. de Musset. {Not qwite sure that she iwr 
derstands George's elaborate simile) If you mean 
that I restrain Alfred, you are wrong. 

George. Ah, that's what you would have him 
think. But you mothers have a way of holding on. 
I tell you he must be free to sing. I have bought my 
freedom with my heart's blood. I have suffered. 

Mme. de Musset. And we mothers, do you think 
we mothers do not suffer .^^ 

{This is a superb moment for George. 
She snatches from her bosom the little water- 
color drawing which Casimir has brought 
her) 

George. I too am a mother, Madame! Look 
what my darling son has sent me! This poor little 
painting of roses. {She is sobbing) Do you think 
I do not know a mother's heart? 
[54] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Mme. de Musset. Then give my son back to me. 
George. I have not taken him. God has sent 
him. Ah, my friend, he has made me so happy. 
Every day finds me more attached to him. Every 
day the beauty of Hfe shines more briUiantly. Would 
you shatter this love of ours? He is my universe, 
my all. 

Mme. de Musset. (Slowly) Pardon me, Ma- 
dame, but you force me to be cruel. 

George. Go on, go on, life has not spared me, 
why should you? 

Mme. de Musset. You say you are his universe, 
but, Madame, are you sure you are all of this to hmi? 
George. Ask him and his tears will answer you. 
(She jots this down) After the desolation of my 
past he has come like a new dawn into my life. I 
was a mere girl when I married, young, furtive, reti- 
cent, romantic. I adored my husband. I gave him 
my faith, my life. And what did he make of them? 
Mme. de Musset. Spare me. 
George. (Leaning towards her) He tossed them 
to the first chambermaid that smiled on him. I suf- 
fered this because I still loved him. Men, — Madame, 
men never know what agony we women hush in our 
hearts. 

Mme. de Musset. (In spite of herself) Yes — 

that is true. 

George. I bore this. My baby came. I still 
preserve his first wee darling shoes. 

Mme. de Musset. (Off her guard) And I've 

[55] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

kept Alfred's curls. There's still a glint of gold in 
them. (Her voice softens) 

George. (Makmg the most of the moment) I 
bore this till the day he struck me. 

Mme. de Musset. (More gently) Struck you? 
George. Then I left him forever to find refuge 
in Paris and consolation in my work. Ah, Madame, 
do you begin to understand.^ 

(Then Mme. de Musset speaks very quick- 
ly attempting to cover a softening emotion 
which she canH suppress) 
Mme. de Musset. But why, — why have you 

chosen my boy from all the men you 

(She stops short) 
George. Because he has come as my first love, 
when I thought that love was over forever. You 
must not, you cannot take him from me. 

(Mme. de Musset is half -consciously be- 
ginning to pity her and she fights against it) 
Mme. de Musset. I am taking him away to save 
him. 

George. Save him? Is he not a man? Would 
you fling him to the grisettes of the boulevard as the 
Philistines flung Daniel to the lions? (Again the 
Bible. The Scriptures mere ever her "present help 
in trouble") No ! no ! I will be a mother to him. 
A mother and a mistress. That combination is 
unique, Madame, unique, but none the less sublime. 

Mme. de Musset. I 

George. (In a last beautiful effort) You are 
[56] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

his mother. You gave him life. He drank in love 
at your breasts. You have reared and tendered him 
and in gratitude he would give back some of this love 
you have given him. He would pay heaven by lov- 
ing in return. There are tears in your eyes. There 
are tears in the hearts of each of us. You have 
taught him love and now he would bring an offering 
of love to lay on the altar of my heart. 

Mme. de Musset. (Almost won) Your elo- 
quence, Madame 

George. No ! No ! It is not my eloquence, it is 
your mother's love, understanding the love of an 
unfortunate sister. 

(She throws herself on her knees before 
her, then with dulcet sweetness) 
May I call you mother.'' 

Mme. de Musset. I have misjudged you, Ma- 
dame. I ask your pardon. There is much good in 
your heart. 

George. I have opened it to you. (And then 
from a sublimated height of spirituality/) You will 
tell him to go with me. 

Mme. de Musset. (On the verge of a collapse) 
I— I 

George. (Veri/ gentle/) You will, mother? 

Mme. de Musset. (Slowly) Yes, he shall go 
with you. 

(And George sprvngs up and rushes tri- 
umphantly to the door of the kitchen) 

[57] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

George. (Calling) Alfred, Alfred. Madame, 
you have chosen well. 

{But the emotional strain has been too 
much for Mme. de Musset and she is weep- 
ing when Alfred enters) 
Alfred. Mother, my mother, do not weep. If 
one of us must suffer, it shall not be you. 
Mme. de Musset. My son, my son. 
Alfred. You have suffered agony to give me 
life, shall I not suffer agony to bring you peace.? 
Come, mother, I renounce my love, and will go with 
you. 

(And Mme. de Musset is so swept away 

by her son's nobility that she forgets her 

words to George) 

Mme. de Musset. (Throwing her arms about 

him) Then come, my Alfred, and your mother will 

help you to forget. 

(They move towards the door. A pause. 

George is almost swooning. But a moment 

later and she is ready even for this seeming 

defeat on the brink of victory. She bars 

their way) 

George. (Darkly) He loves me with his life. 

(And then very tragically) He will not hesitate if 

you come between us. He is a genius, and geniuses 

do not stop to think. 

(In horror Mme. de Musset looks at Al- 
fred. Dejectedly he turns away, his head 
fallen) 
[58] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

Mme. de Musset. (In terror) No! No! Not 
that ! Not that ! 

(The Tnen crowd vn at the doorway) 
AiiFRED. I am but a poor reed, broken in the 
wind of destiny. 

(George watches Mme. de Musset. Her 
last thrust has gone home) 
Heine. (With a quick glance at George as she 
puts on the new bonnet bought for Italy) The 
wind has changed. 

Ai^FRED. I am ready, mother. I shall go with 
you, tho I leave my life behind me. 

(Candle-light and pathos crown, the scene. 

Then Mme. de Musset speaks) 

Mme. de Musset. (Her voice trembling) No, 

Alfred, you shall go to Italy. I am your mother 

and I wish it. I have misjudged this lady. Her 

heart is noble. My blessings follow you. 

(She sinks into a chair at the table and 
Alfred throws himself on his knees before 
her) 
Alfred. My mother, my noble mother. 

(Pause. Tableau, then Buloz bustles in) 
BuLOZ. (Briskly) You haven't much time, if 
you're leaving to-night. The diligence starts from 
the Post in ten minutes. 

George. Quick, Rosalie, a cab, a cab. (Rosalie 
rushes out) Alfred, when Elysium beckons we'll not 
wait for baggage. Buloz, give Rosalie two hundred 
francs and send my trunks to Genoa and twenty 

[59] 



MADAME SAND [Act I] 

reams of Weynan paper. My pen adores it. Al- 
fred, Alfred, the world is kind. 

(Alfred has got up and braced himself 
with half a bottle of claret) 
Alfred. {Gayly) I'll write five comedies, a 
tragedy and three books of poems. 
BuLOz. Hurry ! Hurry ! 

(jOne or two wraps and a few small bags 
are hustled into the hall) 
Heine. Good-bye, fond lovers, the Gods have 
made you artists. 

(RosAME comes rushing in) 
George. (Rapturously) And love will make us 
Gods! 

Rosalie. There was a cab in the courtyard. 
(Then to George) He said you told him to wait all 
evening. 

(George from her pinnacle, disregardim^g 
this last blatant proof of her campaigning) 
George. Good-bye, — farewell, my friends. (And 
then beautifully to Mme. de Musset) Madame, 
God looks down on us. Love is all. 

Mme. de Musset. (Suddenly succumbing to the 
practical) Be sure that Alfred wears his heaviest 
flannels in that drafty diligence. 
George. Trust me! Love is all! 

(And snatching her half-finished manu- 
script from the desk, she and Alfred ru^h 
from the room, followed by Buloz and Heine. 
Mme. de Musset sits silently, quite overcome, 
[60] 



[Act I] MADAME SAND 

as Paul rvms over to the wmdow to watch 
the departure; and Rosalie begins clearing 
the table. She sees the omelet) 
Rosalie. (Laconically) And all those ten eggs 
wasted. 

( Voices sound up from the courtyard. The 
noise has again wakened the canaries. There 
is a shower of song and the curtavn falls) 



END or ACT I 



[61] 



ACT II 

Nothing but Time Lasts Forever 



ACT U 

It is six months later. The scene is George's 
apartment in, the Hotel Danieli, Venice. It is even- 
vng. Through a great Venetian window, back center, 
vn the distance across the Grand Co/nal, can he seen 
the Island of San Giorgio with its Campanile sil- 
houetted against the moon. The room is huge tiled 
and gloomy. Deep shadows are everywhere. A few 
chairs are about, Madame's writing desk piled high 
with manuscripts is vn a corner, and to the right a 
great four-poster bed with the curtains drawn. But 
the hand of the occupant hangs below them and is 
just visible in the dim light of a night lamp which 
stands on a little bottle-covered table near the bed. 
There is a suggestion of the atmosphere of a sick- 
room, but somehow the idea of gloom is not too per- 
vasive. 

Outside on the Grand Canal a "serenata" is vn fuU 
swing. One hears the call of the gondoliers, the 
bump of the boats, the chatter of voices, the beating 
of tambourines and the shrill laughter of women, like 
little rockets shooting up vn the shifting hum of 
sovMd. A sudden stillness and then a man^s voice 
sings, lusciously, meltingly, a Venetian love song with 
an accompaniment like a Barcarole of Mendelssohn, 

[65] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

Italy — night — and love — and this sick-room. But 
still the background is fitting for in the deep, dark 
embrasure of the Venetian window in the rear which 
opens on a balcony over the canal, two figures are 
leaning, listening to their hearts and the music. 
They are George and her lover. 

George. No ! No ! Don't answer. The stillness 
is too eloquent. Listen ! Listen ! 

{The voice of the singer at the serenata, 
lifts in poignant ecstasy) 
George. Listen, his voice has reached the stars 
that bend down to hear. Ah, my beloved, love is the 
end and the beginning. 

{They are smoking in the shadows of the 
deep window. The fumes float out) 
George. Do jou know what my life has been 
until you came bearing a light in the darkness .^^ 
Nights of despair and dawns of disillusionment. 
Life was but a sorry riddle whose answer was death. 
{She is almost sobbing) That thought came to me 
yesterday in the Hebrew cemetery. All was over 
and now love again sings in my heart. Let silence 
be our prayer of thanksgiving. 

{A moment's attempt at this ^'silence,'' but 
the crowd outside do not understand its beau- 
tiful necessity and the next second the song 
is over and a tumultuous burst of applause 
lifts from the waters) 
George. And now we'll have tea. How beauti- 
fully he sang. Music is perpetual passion yearning 
[66] 



[Act II} MADAME SAND 

forever. Sli! — i^ou mustn't speak so loudly or our 
patient may awake. 

{She comes from the window. Her lover 
stops in the shadow watching her as she 
glides about. She dips a taper into the night- 
lamp and at the end of the room farthest 
from, the bed lights a candle standing in a 
bracket hanging on the wall. The stage grows 
a little lighter. She is dressed in man^s 
clothing and is smoking a hmge cigar. She 
leans over a little brazier 
George. Yes — it's bubbling. I adore cooking. 
Even making tea fascinates me. That's why Dumas 
would never come to see me in Paris — ah, Paris — 
he was jealous of my sauces. {She pours a little 
water into a tea-pot) Come, dear, it's ready. 

{And Dr. Pagei^lo steps out of the shadow 
of the window. He is George's deep-eyed, 
hesitant, but none too brilliant Italian doc- 
tor. He has no mental distinction, no au- 
thority, no particular magnetism,, but he is 
charmingly simple and George has discov- 
ered in him a latent talent for the tender one- 
syllabled sort of love which at the moment 
of the threatening ''debacW' of her affair 
with DE Musset, her soul needs; and withal 
though he is not too masterful he is extraor- 
dinarily handsome) 
George. Sh — You mustn't speak too loudly. He 

[67] 



MADAME SAND lAct TI] 

may awake. (Sh^ glances toward the bed) Though 
he has outraged our love, still I pity him. 

Pageli.0. He needs sleep badly. 

George. Ah, my friend, we must heal him. 
France needs him. He is weak, weak — his imagina- 
tion has sapped his will. {And then rather myste- 
riously) But he must not pass beyond. 

Pagello. No. He will live, but I do not see why 
you say pass beyond. It is very difficult for a phy- 
sician to understand how you other people feel about 
that sort of thing. 

George. {Half playfully) You ponderous sci- 
entist. You wicked, wicked materialist, don't you 
believe the soul goes on forever? {Then beautifully) 
Isn't love, — our love — an earthly symbol of the 
soul's eternity. Don't you understand that Pietro.'' 

Pagello. I — I used to understand only what I 
saw, but you somehow, you make me understand 
what I do not see. I cannot explain you to myself. 

George. I thought nothing was hidden from you 
doctors. 

Pa6ei.i.o. Most of the women I know are differ- 
ent from you. You are very unlike my mother. 

George. No, no, Pietro, perhaps you misjudge 
me. I, too, am only a woman. 

pAGEiii.0. I carry my mother's picture with me. 
See. {He shows her a little locket, which hangs from 
a chain about his neck) She is very dear to me. 

George. {Looking at the miniature) Your eyes 
— your brow — and that look of trust. Some day 
[68] 



[Act II) MADAME SAND 

you must tell me all about her. You will have a 
little rum? Yes — some day we'll go to her — you 
and I. (Pagello starts slightly) I'll read her part 
of my latest novel. I wrote for six hours last night. 

Pagello. (Deeply concerned) That's too much. 

George. And for seven again this morning be- 
fore breakfast. I've gotten used to it. (She glances 
toward the hed, and then with a note of genuine sad- 
ness in her voice) It helps me to forget. 

Pageli.0. (Professionally) Work like that is 
bad for you, you cannot keep it up, — or 

George. Is it can or cannot.'' I must live and 
to live I must write. 

Pagello. Why, even we physicians 

George. Yes, yes, I know. (She is smiling gently 
at him) Your mother will like my book and you too, 
Pietro. It is written out of my heart. 

Pagello. I think my father would care more to 
hear it. He is a scholar, you know. He has come 
up from Castelfranco to read some books in the 
library here. He is waiting for me in the Piazetta ; 
we are to have ices together. All day he is busy 
with his books, and in the evening I meet him. 

George. You are a dutiful son. Do not believe 
the cynics, Pietro. The world is full of dutiful sons. 
(A h^lf glance towards the bed) 

Pagello. He is writing a history of Castel- 
franco. He loves our home. 

George. Yes, yes, I too love the scenes of my 
childhood. Dear, secluded Nohant — but lately I 

[69] 



MADAME SAND [Act 11] 

have been dreaming (She leans a little toward him) 
of the Alpine hills. Why, even here in Venice I smell 
the scent of the almond flowers. (Then very ten- 
derly) You know the Alpine valleys, Pietro — it is 
spring (^And into the last word she crowds all the 
essence of the sweet hegmning of things) — spring. 

Pagello. I have seen very little. Venice and 
the country about my home. 

George. Yes, we will go there some day. 

Pagello. George! (He leans towards her, then 
stops) George 

George. You have an adorable way of hesitating 
and then a lovely worried smile comes into your eyes. 
You must ever stay what I know you are rather than 
what you may be. 

Pagello. What I am, what I have done, does 
that matter now? 

George. You must tell me nothing. (She glances 
towards the bed) Once before I thought I knew 
the heart of a man. Ah, well! (She sadly shahes 
her head) But now — now — (She leans towards 
him,) You must remain a mystery. 

Pagello. Why.? Why.? 

George. Because my love for you is beyond un- 
derstanding. It is part of myself. You have come 
to me (Again a pathetic glance at the patient) 
when my heart was broken. 

Pagello. Before I knew you nothing used to in- 
terest me so much as gall-stones. But now 

George. You droll darling. Sh — Sh — We 
[70] 



[Act II} MADAME SAND 

mustnH talk so loud. (There is a movement and a 
sigh from the sleeper behind the curtains) God 
grant he is quiet to-night. I cannot stand this ter- 
rible life much longer. 

Pagello. I pity you, you have nursed him like a 
mother. 

George. What has he not done to break my 
heart ^ 

{She steps towards the bed and mournfully 
looks in at the sleeper. Then she is bach 
at the table) 
George. May God — who is love — some day give 
me the strength to forgive him. 

Pagello. He is better, almost well again — if he 
can give up this drinking — 

George, li^ Think of it, Pietro. The other 
night I had to call up two of the stoutest porters to 
hold him down. Pie wept and sang and without a 
stitch of clothing danced about the room shrieking 
that the place was full of demons with vipers in 
their hair. It was terrible. 

Pagei.i.0. {Attempting to quiet her) Don't 
speak of these things, George. 

{The memory of it is too much for her, but 
the old instinct conquers) 
George. Some day I shall put that scene into a 
novel. Why not — ^life is my theme. He has come 
reeling home. He has squandered his money and 
mine, Pietro. He has lost thousands of francs at the 
tables. I sent to Paris, Buloz advanced me more. 

[71] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

Pagello. What? This money that you earn, 
writing day and night, — 

George. Yes ! Yes ! — By the sweat of my soul 
— I should say brow. It is true, my friend. The 
French Consul has taken him to these gambling 
houses and other places — other places, Pietro. 

Pagello. And aU the while you sat there. (He 
points to the desk) 

George. Do you think he minded that? One 
night in the pocket of his coat I found a slipper — 
a slipper of a ballerina. It was soaked with cham- 
pagne. 

Pagello. (The extravagance rather than the im- 
propriety getting the better of hvm) No ! Cham- 
pagne. That cost two lires a bottle! 

George. The toe was stuifed. That's how these 
people seem to dance on nothing. Ah — I have borne 
much. 

Pagei^lo. Yes, yes. 

George. Sh — he is awake. 

(A mo7nent's pause, then again quiet. The 
hand below the curtain falls a little lower 
in exhausted relaxation) 

Pagello. George, George, my noble friend, how 
you have suffered. 

George. I have borne all. The gold he flung 
about him, that mattered little. I could write, write. 
The incessant drink — I forgave him that. 

Pagello. And the ballet dancer? 

George. (Bitterly) That, too, my friend. Do 
[72] 



[Act 11] MADAME SAND 

you think that mattered? No. All that is nothing 
— nothing; but he has committed the one sin a 
woman cannot forgive. {And then with a sincerity 
that sounds through the romance of it all) He has 
ceased to love me. (She is weeping) 

Pagello. And you, George, you no longer love 
him.? 

George. Pietro, how can you ask me that.^* No, 
that is over. 

Pagello. No mother could have nursed him 
more tenderly than you. 

George. No, no. 

Pagello. I loved you for your care of him. 

George. (Getting up) Perhaps his pillow needs 
turning. 

Pagello. No, do not disturb him. 

George. I would give my life rather than see him 
suffer. 

Pagello. The world will never know what you 
have done for him. 

George. (For the moment forgetting her itch- 
ing pen) Never, never, Pietro, but does that mat- 
ter.? (She is over at the bedside, a symbol of sac- 
rificial duty) I at least have kept my faith. (Then 
reminiscently) How he urged me to go with him 
to Italy, when I hesitated. 

( Then she is back at the table, weeping and 
slicing a lemon as she speaks) 

George. (With deep meaning) You came just 
in time, Pietro. 

[73] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

PAGEiiLO. (Again with a tinge of professional 
pride) I hope I have helped him, the case wasn't 
easy. 

George. (Dramatically) It is me whom you 
have lifted from the grave. 

Pagello. You? 

George. (Darkly) I had decided to die. 

Pagello. You? 

George. The day before you came into my life. 
I had planned to leap from the Campanile in the 
afternoon just when the band was playing so that 
all the world might know what he had done to me. 

Pagello. (Stirred) You must stop writing — 
you're tired, overstrained. 

George. (Tenderly) Ah! Pietro. Now I am 
better. God has sent you. Can you know what you 
mean to me? Help me to be strong. 

Pageli.0. I too thank God for the day I chanced 
to pass your window. 

George. (Suddenly, her hand on his) Chance! 
Chance! And in that little word lies all the joy and 
sorrow of the world. 

(Pause. Farther in the distance can be 
heard the sound of the serenata. Pagello 
goes to the window.) 

Pagei.i.0. (Pointing to the balcony) It was here 
you stood. De Musset was next you. There was 
something strange about you, as you flecked the 
ashes from your cigar. I looked up. (He is back 
from the window) 
[74] 



[ActllJ MADAME SAND 

George. I remember, Pietro. (She gleams up 
at Jiim) 

Pagello. Was it a sort of mesmerism? 

George. Older than Mesmer, Pietro, man call- 
ing unto woman. It began in Eden. 

Pageleo. It was as if we spoke. 

George. (Lyrically) Our hearts were answer- 
ing one another. 

(The tenor's song lifts in the distance) 

Pageeeo. All day I thought of the beauty of 
your sad eyes. 

George. {Gently) Beauty ,^ — no, my friend. 
They were dim with weeping. 

Pageeeo. All my visits seemed dull to me. Even 
my most serious case — a fat Turk dying of typhus 
didn't interest me. Whilst I bled him, I thought of 
you. 

George. {Sweetly, accepting the compliment) 
Yes, Pietro? 

Pageleo. Back in m}^ office, I could think of 
nothing but you. 

{There is a restless move from the sleeper 
behind the curtain's, hut George, — who for 
a long while has heard no such tenderness as 
this, — doesn't notice it) 

Pageleo. You — you. 

George. And I, Pietro, I of you. As I leaned 
over my writing, I saw you. Do you remember 
Dante? — your Dante — Paola, Francesca, — only I 
must change the words a little. {She smiles faintly) 

[75] 



MADAME SAND [Act 11] 

I must saj; that day I wrote no more. (She drifts 
over to the window. She learn out) Ah! Pietro, the 
night is like a drawn sword. Listen, the very stars 
are singing. 

Pagello. (A little confused) No, that's the 
tenor at the serenata. Ah, how I love you! That 
day even Dr. Ganetti's book on gall-stones couldn't 
interest me. 

George. No, Pietro.? (She is back at the table, 
he follows her) 

Pagello. Always across the page I saw the scar- 
let of the scarf that you wore about your head. 

(They are leaning across the table, their 
hands clasped together) 

Pagello. (Passionately) You love me, George .^^ — 

George. (Sweetly, simply, all that is deepest in 
her welling up) I love you, Pietro. Why I do not 
know. I love you as I have never loved before. All 
my other love has been but as a preparation for this 
love of ours which shall last forever. (Another 
sigh from the bed) Sh — he is awake. 

Pagello. No, if he has taken the powder he will 
sleep till morning. (He is around the table next to 
her) George, George, how grateful I am to God 
that so beautiful a soul as yours has bent down to 
me. 

George. Bent, my darling.? No! It is you who 
have lifted me from despair. (They are about to 
embrace. The sleeper is again restless. She whis- 
pers) Sh — we are much too loud. 
[76] 



[ActllJ MADAME SAND 

(^Love in the shadow of the patienfs bed is 
two incongruous even for her artistes na- 
ture) 
George. {With an attempt at readjustment) 
Let's finish our tea. It's from India. Alfred bought 
it in the Rialto. It cost four lire. 

Pagello. What ! That's a lot of money. 
George. Nothing is too fine for Alfred. {Then 
with a sad little laugh in her voice) It was my 
money. 

(aS^^^ pours out the tea. There is only one 

cup. Pagel-lo not noticing this, takes it up) 

Pagello. {Sipping his tea) It tastes strange. 

George. {Fantastically/) Nude girls gathered 

it. 

Pagello. It certainly does taste different. 
George. {Continuvng) It's what the jeweled and 
drowsy nabobs sip whilst they loll in their ham- 
mocks of spun silk. 

{She goes over to her desk and makes a 
note on the back of one of the sheets of her 
manuscript paper) 
George. ( Writing) That's a beautiful sentence. 
It has the odor of twilights in the East. 
Pagello. The tea.? 

George. No, darling, my words. You mustn't 
be too literal. That's what too much science does. 

{As she passes him on her way hack to the 
table, she lovingly taps his head) 
George, {Smiling) All the night is in your eyes, 

[77] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

Pagello. (Slipping his arm about her) Let's 
go out on the balcony. By now the crowds are far 
beyond the Piazzetta. (He takes a step towards 
her) 

George. (Admonishing him, as she glances to- 
ward the bed) No, no, Pietro, you are too impet- 
uous. Our poor Alfred might need something. 

Pagello. He is almost well, to-morrow he can 
get up. (He takes up his tea-cup) 

George. I am waiting till he is strong again. 
(She glances at the doctor) Then he must be told. 
Pagello. He has my pity. Sooner or later he 
would find out. 

George. Yes — ^we are above subterfuge. 
Pagello. (Sipping his tea) But you aren't 
drinking. (He looks down at the table to hand her 
the other cup) Why look, — there is only one. 

George. Isn't one enough, Pietro? (She is over 
newt to him) I shall sup from yours. 

Pagello. (Tenderly) Then you must bend 
down. . 

(And she does so, and his arm goes about 
her waist. And the next moment she is in his 
lap. And their mouths are almost touching 
as they press the cup to their lips. And at 
this moment Alfred's night-capped head 
pops out through the curtains of the bed be- 
hind them. Tableau. He chokes back an 
exclamation of amazement and the curtains 
hanging about him tremble) 
[78] 



[Act 11} MADAME SAND 

George. ( Wistfully/) There now — I have had 
my tea. 

Pagello. (Ardently/) And I shall have my kiss. 

George. (Faintly) Pietro! Pietro ! 

(And Alfred, pale as the curtains about 
him, leans forward, matching them. And 
passionately they embrace and then suddenly 
she jumips up and as suddenly Alfred drops 
hack behind the curtains) 

George. (The ^' eclaircissement'' has come) Now 
I understand everything. I see it all clearly. 

Pagello. (Quite taken by surprise) What's 
the matter? 

George. We must go away, and at once. 

Pagello. What — 

George. We cannot stay. It is a desecration, no 
not here, not here. It is an insult to this love of ours. 
We dare not hesitate. 

Pagello. I — George — 

George. Life is calling us. This room stifles me. 

Pagello. (Practical as ever) Then let's go 
out on the balcony. 

George. No, no, come, come away, away. 

Pagello. (Quite misunderstanding her dynamic 
impetuosity) Shall we go to the Lido? Shall I 
call a gondola? 

George. No, no, to the Alpine valleys. I am 
dressed for climbing. 

Pagello. (Completely stupefed) What! George! 

George. It is spring — spring. (The thought 

[79] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

gives a buoyant ring to her voice) We will wander 
hand in hand like innocent, laughing children, and 
we will love to the sound of the tumbling cascades. 
(Pagello stands looking at her in wonder) 
George. And then — Paris. We've got to be in 
time, Pietro, to see my little darlings, Solange, 
Maurice, take their prizes at school. 

Pagello. ( Who can scarcely gasp) To Paris — 
George. And to freedom! Come! 

(She glances toward the bed. Alfred, his 
head poked out on the other side, is listening) 
Let us not hesitate. A moment may shatter — all. 
Pagello. (Completely at a loss) But — 
George. For weeks, weeks I have known this 
would come. I have prophetic visions. To-mor- 
row, the day after, it will be the same. I cannot 
live in the shadow of these memories. 

pAGELiiO. (Not quite keyed to such speed) And 
— de Musset — .? 

George. He shall be told. But now, now we can- 
not wait. We must leave together. Destiny has 
spoken. 

(She is in his arms, and Alfred is leaning 
half out of bed. His intentions are patently 
to have something to do with this destiny, but 
as George sweeps forward, he involuntarily 
slips back) 
George. Come, Pietro. 

Pagello. (Not knowing what to say) And 
leave Venice? — George — 
[80] 



[Act II] MADAME SAND 

George. I have been sent to save you, you must 
go lest your future sink in the mud of these lan- 
guorous lagoons. The world is waiting to receive 
you. 

Pagello. And my patients.? 

George. {Inspirationallif) Your patients — why 
emperors shall call you in for gall-stones. 

Pagello. {Still unpersuaded) And my mother? 

George. {Involuntarily) Mother, mother. No, 
no. That mustn't happen again. {But in a moment 
she has recovered) You must be free to realize 
yourself. I have done that. I am free. 

Pagello. {Still doubtful) And my father? 

George. Have you any aunts or uncles? Your 
father, what of him? 

Pagello. He will never consent to this. 

George. I shall persuade him. 

Pagello. {In amazement) You? 

George. He is eating ices in the Piazzetta. He 
is a scholar. You told me this. A scholar who is 
eating ices — the combination proves him gentle. He 
will understand. He will bless you and send you 
with me. 

Pagello. But — 

George. Again but — nothing but buts. Come, 
Pietro. Come. 

{They are at the door) 

Pagello. {Pointing to her trousers) Can you 
go like that? 

George. Yes. Venice has got used to me. 

[81] 



MADAME SAND {Act II] 

Pagel-lo. This is madness. 
George. Love has spoken. 

Pagello. But my father will never consent to 
this. 

George. ( Undaunted) I know a parent's heart. 
(Alfred is about to call out) I have not lived my 
life for nothing. Come! The scent of the almond 
bloom is calling. 

(And half dragging him after her they 
are gone. Alfred gazes after them in 
speechless astonishment. Then he tries to 
get up to follow. He is too weak. He falls 
back on the bed. Very far in the distance 
the noise of the serenata can be heard. Slowly 
he rouses himself. He pours out some brandy 
which stands on the little table near the 
bed. Half swooning he reaches the window. 
He tries to call out. His strength fails him. 
He leans against the window frame. Sud- 
denly there is a knock at the door and he 
turns to see Paul at the threshold) 
Alfred. Paul ! 

Paul. Good God, Alfred, what's the matter? 
You look half dead. 

Alfred. {Faintly) Help me back to bed. 
Paul. Where's George? 

(Alfred leaning on him reaches the bed) 
Alfred. Eating ices on the Piazzetta. 
Paul. She leaves you alone like this? 
Alfred. She must have her ices. {He pours 
[82] 



[Act 11] MADAME SAND 

out another glass of brands/) You didn't write you 
were coming. What brings you to Venice? 

Paul. Mother sent me. She was uneasy. 

Alfred. Uneasy.? 

Paul. Yes. You and George. Your letters came 
less frequently. 

Alfred. Pve been busy. I've started three trag- 
edies, four comedies and a book of poems. How's 
mother ? 

Paul. She sends her kindliest greetings to 
George. 

Alfred. {Smiling faintly) Yes — 

Paul. When will George be back? 

Alfred . When ? 

Paul. Mother is so grateful to her. Buloz says 
she's taken such good care of you. 

Alfred. And — 

Paul. But lately he's been silent. Mother drove 
to his office every day. 

Alfred. Poor Buloz — 

Paul. And all he would do was to sit there look- 
ing at her strangely thru his monocle. 

Alfred. And mother, I suppose, would stare 
back thru her lorgnon. Curious, isn't it, Paul? 
Sometimes the harder people look the less they see. 

Paul. Of course I told her everything was all 
right. 

Alfred. (On the verge of laughter) Of course. 

Paul. I saw Heine. 

Alfred. Yes ? 

[83] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

Paul. Said he knew nothing but he advised me 
to leave it all to George. Said that she would man- 
age somehow. 

Alfred. She has managed, — somehow. {He is 
laughing to himself) 

Paul. I told Heine I was going to Venice. 

Alfred. Yes. 

Paul. He sent you a message 

Alfred. A blessing that sneers.? 

Paul. No, he told me to tell you that Hell is the 
place where the satisfied compare disappointments. 

Alfred. He knows. 

Paul. You're so white, Alfred, what's the mat- 
ter.? 

Alfred. Pve been ill. Sunstroke, lying on the 
beach at the Lido. 

Paul. You should have known better. 

Alfred. I couldn't get away. George insisted 
on reading me her last six chapters. Such rubbish! 
Perhaps it was the book and not the sun. 

Paul. You're better now.? 

Alfred. To-morrow Pll be about again. 

Paul. Mother sent you this. {He hands himi 
a letter) 

Alfred. {Slipping it under his pillow) How 
much .? 

Paul. A thousand francs. 

Alfred. {Petulantly flinging himself hack on 
the pillow) But I needed fifteen hundred. Has she 
forgiven my going.? 
[84] 



[Act II] MADAME SAND 

Paul. A week after and she was glad you'd gone. 

Alfred. Glad? 

Paul. Said it would do you good to see life. 

Alfred. Yes — ^Yes — It's done me good. Have 
a bit of brandy, Paul. (He sits up and pours out 
a little in a glass) 

Paul. As I came by two men raced past me. 
They almost knocked me over. 

Alfred. (Sipping his brandy) You're not 
easily bowled over, are you, Paul.^ 

Paul. These Italians have such brutal manners. 
But just the same I was amused. 

Alfred. Yes. 

Paul. One of them bore the strangest resem- 
blance to George. 

Alfred. Naturally. 

Paul. What.? 

Alfred. Have a bit of brandy. 

Paul. Why did you say naturally.? 

Alfred. (Speaking slowly and rather amused 
watching the effect on Paul) It was George. 

Paul. What? George? Running thru the streets 
with another man dressed like that. 

Alfred. (A twinMe in his voice) To hesitate 
is to hinder history. 

Paul. Can't you be serious? Where were they 
running to ? 

Alfred. As far as their trousered legs can carry 
them. 

Paul. What? 

[85] 



MADAME SAND {Act II] 

Alfeed. If something doesn't stop them they'll 
reach the end of the earth and then drop off. 

Paul. You mean the Grand Canal? 

Alfred. Not exactly. But something will stop 
them. 

Paul. I hope so. Can she swim ? 

Alfred. In any waters. But she'll be stopped 
unless I am mistaken and by something she doesn't 
quite expect. The old man's a scholar. 

Paul. (In the dark) What.? 

Alfred. She'll bump into his papa. 

Paul. {Mystified) Papa? 

Alfred. Yes. The papa of the other man who 
nearly knocked you over. 

Paul. I— 

Alfred. {Shedding the light) She is planning 
to elope with him. 

Paul. {Springing up) Then it's ended? 

Alfred. How swiftly you deduce. A great phi- 
losopher lies buried deep — very deep, in you. 

Paul. If ever again I believe in a woman I'll 
cease to believe in God. I've come just in time. 
Mother was right to send me. Perhaps I can patch 
it up. 

Alfred. No, leave it torn. That's how the light 
soaks thru. 

Paul. {Sympathetically/ coming towards him) 
My poor, poor Alfred. Don't let it hurt too much. 
Paris is crowded with women. They mayn't all 
know literature but nearly all know love. 
[86] 



[Act II] MADAME SAND 

Alfred. Yes, Paul. 
Paul. My poor, poor brother. 
Alfred. My poor, poor imbecile. Thank God 
it's over ! I wish she were in Hell ! 

(And Paul flops hack into his chair and 
then Alfred lets loose what has been stor- 
ing up in him for months) 
Alfred. I can't bear her about me. She's like 
a noisy old clock that can't stop ticking. Why, she 
actually had the indelicacy when I lay here recov- 
ering from my sunstroke (He takes a gulp of 
brandy) to sit next to my bed scratching away all 
night at her endless novels. She writes as a cow 
gives milk. All she has to do is to jerk at her 
mind. Sometimes I drank a little to forget. (Paul 
in silent astonishment sits listening) There are 
two ways to get to know a person, Paul. Gambling 
with them or travelling with them. The first is 
better, it's over sooner. {His pent-up vehemence 
comes pouring out) She has the soul of a bour- 
goise. One day I sat there trying to write and 
what do you think I heard in the next room? She 
was telling the chambermaid— the chambermaid, 
Paul, how her mother was dancing at a ball a month 
before her marriage and how she stopped in the 
middle of the quadrille and five minutes afterwards 
gave birth to George. 
Paul. My God — no — 

Alfred. I called her in. I remonstrated with her 
and she sneered at my hypocritical breeding. 

[87] 



MADAME SAND lAct II] 

Paul. And could you expect her to understand 
that? 

Alfred. She laughed at me and said that many 
of the best family trees bore the worst fruit. I 
rushed away and drank, drank, drank {And he does 
so) to forget the vulgarity of it all. 

Paul. {CoTnmiseratingly) My poor Alfred! 

Alfred. And when I got back, there she sat 
scribbling. All my beautiful, glorious ideas deserted 
me. There she sat — scribbling, scribbling all the 
night long, scratching away like a rusty old file. 

{He is exhausted and falls weahly hack on 
the hed) 

Paul. {Leaning over him) My poor brother, 
what you have lived thru. 

Alfred. Think of it, Paul. Only a few minutes 
ago I caught them kissing, actually kissing, in the 
shadow of my bed, — ^my bed of torture. 

Paul. {Slowly) What will mother say? 

Alfred. She must never know. 

Paul. Two weeks and the boulevards will be 
gabbing. George tells everything to Buloz. 

Alfred. She tells everything to everybody. 
{Then half bitterly, half humorowsly) Copy — copy. 

Paul. But I'll defend you now that I know the 
truth. 

Alfred. {Suddenly sitting up) What? 

Paul. I'll answer her. Leave it to me ; wait and 
see. 

Alfred. {Making the most of the moment by 
[88] 



[Actli;! MADAME SAND 

adding to the data) There she lay in his arms, 
Paul, drinking my tea from the one cup, both of 
them, whilst she mumbled something about haste 
and almond blossoms. 

Paul. And so George the untiring, weary of the 
de Musset doll, tosses the broken puppet into a 
comer. 

Alfred. God knows how kind, how gentle, I 
have been with her. {And then he too begins think- 
ing of the beginning of their love in Paris) How 
she urged me to go to Italy when I hesitated. I 
at least have been faithful. 

Paul. And now she's leaving you.? 
Alfred. If fate is kind and the old father is 
a fool. If he can't stop her nothing will. Listen, 
they are coming back. (He points to a door beyond 
the bed) Quick, wait in there. 

(And he is about to crawl back into bed 
but the next instant the door flies open and 
LucREZiA VioLENTE, Pagello's mistress, 
rushes into the room. She is tense, dark, 
scented, a colorful combination of a languor- 
ous poppy when happy and an angry fire- 
cracker when stirred. She slams the door 
behind her and leans against it) 
LucREZiA. (Panting) I must speak with you, 
you. (She glares at Alfred) You! 

(And Paul with a sly, knowing glance 
at his brother, begins to whistle a sprightly 
snatch of a love song and then trips over to 

[89] 



MADAME SAND lAct II] 

ewamme more closely the beautiful, though 
tempestuous Lucrezia) 
Alfred. (To Paul) What are you doing? 
What's the matter with you? 

Paul. (Smilmg significantly) So! So! My 
naughty, naughty brother. And this is why the 
George gets on your poor nerves. But I don't blame 
you, Alfred, really I don't. 

(Very intimately he begins ogli/ng Lucre- 
zia and whistling even louder. He steps with 
a swaggering familiarity closer to her) 
Alfred. {Coming between them) I tell you to 
wait in the next room. 

Paul. {Laughing) All right. Two's company, 
three's a chaperon. 

{And he enjoys his wit immensely^ to the 
intense discomfort of Alfred and the as- 
tonishment of Lucrezia) 
Alfred. Get out. I tell you Pve never seen the 
girl before. 

Paul. Then thank the dear gods who sent her. 
{And Paul backs out of the room, still 
whistling, with an intimate wave of his hand 
to Lucrezia) 
Alfred. Who are you? 

Lucrezia. {With terrific speed as she speaks 
throughout) Lucrezia Maria Camilla Elvira Vio- 
lente. 

Alfred. {Rather gallantly but a bit uncertain) 
And what do you wish with me, my dear? 

[90] 



[Act II} MADAME SAND 

LucREZiA. {Resenting his tone) What do you 
think? 

Alfred. {Taking her in) Well — er — er — 

(LucREZiA with a slight swagger steps to- 
wards him) 

LucREziA. Well ! 

Alfred. (Smiling at her) Did the French Con- 
sul send you to me? 

LucREZiA. No one has sent me. 

Alfred. I haven't seen you at the serenatas. 

LUCREZIA. No. 

Alfred. Nor at the opera. 

LUCREZLA.. No. 

Alfred. Nor in the Piazzetta, watching the fire- 
works. 

LijcREZiA. (As he steps a little nearer) No. No. 

Alfred. (Not quite sure of his ground hut he is 
Alfred and she is beautiful) Well, you see (And 
then very sweetly), my dear — (He is closer to her) 

LucREZiA. (Starting bach) My dear! How 
dare you ! How dare you ! Dio Mio, Dio Mio, how 
dare you? 

Alfred. Forgive me, my dear, but you see I am 
a man — it is night — ^You come to my room — 

Lucrezia. Yes, yes, I come to your room. (She 
looks about her) 

Alfred. Well, then, who are you? 

Lucrezia. Lucrezia, Maria — 

Alfred. (Stemming the tide) Yes, yes — ^but 
where do you come from? 

[91] 



MADAME SAND lAct II] 

LucREZiA. From Castelfranco. 

AiiFRED. And what do you want with me? 

LucREziA. (Not tempering her disdam) You — 
I want nothing with you. 

Alfred. (Resenting this, his tone a mixture of 
surprise and disappointment) Then why do you 
come here.f^ 

LucREziA. (Almost spitting the words in his face) 
It is your woman, your woman that I want. 

Alfred. (In the dark) What — why, I've never 
even seen you before. 

Lucrezia. You! Bah! (With a gesture as 
though wiping him off her hands) I am an Italian. 
I want to see this George Sand. (She has a curi- 
ous way of sounding the e in George) 

Alfred. (Baching into a chair at the table) 
Yes. I see that you're an Italian. And what do 
you want with Mme. Sand.^^ 

Lucrezia. (Mysteriously handling something 
which is in her belt under her shawl and speahvng 
very simply like a wide eyed child) I wish to kill 
her. 

Alfred. (Darting back) Good God! Who are 
you? What are j^ou? 

Lucrezia. (Coming close to him> and leaning in 
his face as she speaks the words slowly and with 
intense significance) I am a friend — a good friend 
— of Dr. Pietro Pagello. Do you understand me, 
you Frenchman? 
[92] 



[Act II] MADAME SAND 

Alfred. (The light hreakmg) How did you get 
in here? 

LucREZiA. I said I had come to nurse the invalid. 
Bah! {She glares at him in abject disgust) And 
now where is this Signora George Sand? 

Alfred. She has gone out with — {He stops 
short, LucREZiA watching him) With a friend — 
a friend. They have gone to — to (And then with in- 
spiration) to see the Punch and Judy show. 
Madame adores to watch the puppets dance. 

LucREZiA. So. Then they will soon be back. 
(She steps towards a chair) 

Alfred. (Fencing) No. No. That was last 
night. To-night — to-night they — she — 

LucREZiA. (Pointing it) They — Yes — 

Alfred. (A hit at a loss) She — they, — yes, 
they — have gone by moonlight to the open sea be- 
yond Murano. Yes — yes (His imagination begins to 
work) Madame couldn't stand the noise of the 
serenata. Listen, it's coming back. (The boats 
on the Canal have shifted and are coming nearer) 
Listen ! 

LucREziA. So ! So ! (She draws a chair away 
from the table and sits watching Alfred) Then 
I will wait till she comes back from this open sea 
beyond Murano with this friend. (Her breath 
comes in little panting gasps) Madonna mia, this 
friend — this friend. 

Alfred. (At his wit's end) They may stay away 
all night. 

[93] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

LucREZiA. (Her eyes aflame) Madonna mia. So 
it has come to that, — all night. 

Alfred. That is — Madame sometimes waits to 
see the dawn rise over the sea — the Adriatic, you 
know. 

LucREZiA. (Less imagmative perhaps but quite 
Ms match) Then I will stay till morning till 
Madame has seen this dawn rise over this Adriatic. 

Alfred. You can't do that, Madame. Can't you 
see I'm in my dressing gown.'' 

LucREZiA. If you are so modest, my little French- 
man, then go back to bed. I didn't come to talk 
with you. 

Alfred. But see here — people don't do that sort 
of thing. Stop and think. 

LucREZiA. My heart speaks. I do not stop to 
think. 

Alfred. No. I can see that. 

LucREziA. What do I care what you see.'' I have 
come to save my Pietro. I shall take him from this 
George Sand. 

(This is too much for Alfred. Suddenly 
he realizes how she may entangle the chances 
of his own happy and imminent release) 

Alfred. (With intense conviction) No, you 
mustn't, you mustn't do that. 

LucREZiA. (Jumping up) What — you say that.'' 

Alfred. (Rushing along) It will do him good. 
Let him see life. Madame will teach him much. 

LucREZiA. Madonna, Madonna. You tell me 
[94] 



lActll'i MADAME SAND 

that. You dead little dove of a man ! Are you not 
her lover? • i 

Alfred. (At a loss) Yes — ^was — that is — yes — 
yes, of course I am. (His emotions are mixed) Now 
you just go away and I'll have a nice little talk 
with George and she'll send him back to you. 

LucEEZiA. (The hand under her shawl nervously 
twitching) If — I — no, no — there is nothing but 
milk in your veins. 

Alfred. (Vainly groping for a way out) Yes, 
yes, lots of milk. Goat's milk. I've been sick, sun- 
stroke. He makes me take milk, gallons of milk. 
He's a wonderful doctor, this Dr. Pagello. 

LucREZiA. (Her hand at her heart) My Pietro, 
— my Pietro. He gives you milk.'' 

Alfred. (Grasping the straw) It's time for it 
now. You'll excuse me, good evening. I've got to 
go out for my milk. 

(He hopefully glances towards the door 

hut LucREZiA is unhudgeable. He tries to 

take a step but he i^ too weak and slips hack 

into his chair) 

LucREZiA. Go back to your bed lest you faint 

like a woman. 

Alfred. (Weakly) But you can't sit there all 
night long. 

LucREZiA. (Firmly) No? 

Alfred. Look here. I'll — (He turns to move 
towards her. He is exhausted) 

[96] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

LucREZiA. (The hand under her shawl twitchvng) 
Yes— 

( The sound of the serenata comes up from 
the maters — tambourines, the laughter of 
women, the song of the tenor) 
Alfred. Listen! That's a song of love. (He 
falters towards the bed) 

LucREziA. (With a sneer) Love! What do 
you know of love, you little Frenchman? 

Alfred. (Throwing himself down) This — only 
this. Life lays the trap of love and we, poor human 
fools, are crowding, crowding and waiting to be 
caught. (He lies back a moment in thought. Then 
suddenly) Ah! No sooner is she out of the way 
than it comes back to me. (Then to Lucrezia) 
Bring me some paper, quick. 

Lucrezia. (Marvelling) What.? 
Alfred. From that desk. There in the corner. 
(Lucrezia resents his sudden, shifting imr 
petuosity. Her experience with poets has 
been limited) 
Lucrezia. What! You dare to order me — 
Alfred. Oh, don't mind that. Women always 
do what I ask them. My mother began it. (He 
tries to get up but sinks back on the pillow) 
Quick ! Some verses have come to me, beautiful 
verses. The first in months. 

(There is something pathetic in his voice. 
Lucrezia goes towards the desk) 
Alfred. Yes. That's it. Several sheets. 
[96] 



[Act II] MADAME SAND 

LucREZiA. (Lifting up some of the pages of 
George's latest romance) This? 

Alfred. Yes, yes. It's her new novel. But 
she'll never miss it. Never. {Angrily Lucrezia is 
about to crush the papers in her hand) And dip a 
pen for me. As soon as she's out. Of course, of 
course, I might have known. One room isn't big 
enough for two muses. 

Lucrezia. {Bringing the paper and pen to his 
bedside) Here. 

Alfred. {Propping himself up) Won't you go 
now.'' 

Lucrezia. What.? 

Alfred. You mustn't stand there watching me 
when I write. It makes me nervous. (Lucrezia 
glares at him in astonishment) Go, please, please. 
{For a moment he forgets her. He begins 
writing whilst she backs to the table and 
sits watching him) 
Lucrezia. {Under her breath) 1 cannot under- 
stand these Frenchmen. They are mad. 

{And in her deep disgust she goes to the 
window and stands looJcing out) 
Alfred. {Fanning his inspiration) Yes — yes 
— yes — 

{His pen glides over the paper. Silence 
for a moment, only the scratching of the 
quill is heard. Then suddenly voices sound 
just outside the door. Lucrezia leaps up 
like a smoldering flame that is hit by the 

[97] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

wind, and instinctively glides into the deep 
embrasure of the window. The papers fall 
from Alfred's hand to the floor as swiftly 
he draws the curtains together and slips 
back into the bed. A moment and George 
triumphantly enters smoking a huge cigar 
and at her heels is Pagello, his big eyes 
filled with love) 
Pagello. Ah, my beloved, how you spoke to 
him. There were tears in his eyes. Such eloquence. 
(LucREziA is watching them. She is mys- 
tified. Pagello is Pagello but who is 
George? The man's costume baffles her, 
the room< is but dimly lit. But then George 
speaks) 
George. No, Pietro, it was not my eloquence. 

{Then the girl recognizes her. She is 
about to spring forward but George goes 
on) 
George. (Lyrically) He understood my sor- 
row. I will bless and remember him forever. His 
heart is gentle. There is only one wound that hurts 
my happiness. 

Pagello. There is much perhaps that I should 
tell you. 

George. No, no, not you. (Then sadly she 
glances towards the bed) He must be told. 
Pagello. Wait until to-morrow. 
George. To-morrow we may die. Life has 
spoken. What must be, must be. 
[98] 



[Act II} MADAME SAND 

(She goes towards the bed. She draws 
hack the curtains. Tenderly she leans over 
the patient) 
George. Alfred! Alfred! 

{A moment's quiet. Then Alfred stirs in 

his slumber. Then he awakes) 

Alfred. {With a far-away voice) Ah! You, 

George. What time is it? You've been gone so 

long. {He leans out of bed and looks about him,) 

Ah! She is gone. 

(LucREZiA is too deep in the window for 
him to see her, but she too is leaning for- 
ward listening) 
George. {At a loss) Who? Who? 
Alfred. That's well. That is well. She is gone. 
George. {Mystified) Who? Who? 
Alfred. Perhaps I've been dreaming. I'm so 
tired. 

Pagello. Yes. Lie down. {Then softly to 
George) He still is weak and imagines that he sees 
things. {He draws her away from, the bed) Wait 
until to-morrow. 

George. Sooner or later we must tell him. 
Alfred. {Trying to overhear them) What are 
you two whispering about? Don't tell me that I've 
got to take one of those nasty powders and more 
milk. I'll fling it out of the window. 

George. Yes. He's better. Much better. It is 
time. 

[99] 



MADAME SAND [Act 11] 

(She goes towards the bed and stands for 
a moment looking at hvm. Her hesitancy 
worries him) 

Alfred. {Encouragingly) I'm well again. 
Strong as a porter. (He glances at George) Look. 
(And expectantly he sits holt upright in the hed) 
My sunstroke's over. 

George. Ah, my friend, you must beware of this 
sun that comes in bottles. 

Alfred. Strong as two porters that I've seen 
somewheres. 

George. (Putting her hand on his shoulder. Her 
tone is simple hut deeply fraught) Alfred, I have 
something to say to you. 

Alfred. (Eagerly) Yes — yes — 

George. (Almost philosophically) Life is so 
different from literature. 

Alfred. (Not expecting the digression) What.? 

George. Some day I must use this scene and I 
must be careful to keep it unelaborate. 

Alfred. (Lest her commentary go on too long) 
Doctor, do you think I'm strong enough to talk 
literature ? 

George. No, my friend, I haven't come to speak 
of literature — but life. But I was thinking after 
all how very simple reality really is. Be brave, Al- 
fred, I have something to say to you. 

Alfred. Yes ? 

George. We are at the cross-roads. Even as 
[100] 



[Act II) MADAME SAND 

Ruth (A puff at her cigar) and Naomi. (As always 
God and the Bible are her refuge) 
AiiFRED. {Impatiently) Yes — yes. 
George. {Very simply) I can no longer be 
your mistress, Alfred. I can only be your friend. I 
love Dr. Pagello. 

{A pause. Four hearts are for a moment 
still. From the water lifts the sound of the 
serenata. The girl in the window starts for- 
ward but the next instant out of the bed 
comes what is meant to be a heart-broken 
wail of despair) 
Alfred. (From among the pillows) George, 
George, why do you tell me this, George.? 

George. {Beautifully) Be brave, be brave, my 
friend. (Pagello stands looking at her in rap- 
ture) I tell you this because I cannot let the 
shadow of a lie dim the fading memory of what once 
we were to one another. {And she takes a long deep 
pull at her cigar) 

Alfred. George, George, how can I bear this.? 
George. We are but born to bear. We poor pil- 
grims. {And she smiles tenderly at the doctor) 
Life is our cross. {Then she turns to Alfred) I 
shall remember that once I loved you. 

Alfred. {Taking her hand and pressing it to 
his lips) Though I weep I shall remember {He is 
perhaps sobbing a little) what you have done for 
me. 

[101] 



MADAME SAND lAct II] 

(LucREZiA in hlank-eyed amazement leans 
forward listening to their beautiful pathos. 
George. It is over, over. Our poor romance is 
ended. Time has written (Then she turns gracious- 
ly to Pagello) finito. Come, Pietro, this place is 
no longer holy. This shrine of love has been defiled. 
{And then in mysterious metaphor) Something has 
entered in. 

{And the something in the window is al- 
most convulsed with passionate hate) 
George. Come, my beloved. (And then she turns 
to Alfred, speaking with childlike frankness) We 
must go from here. Out into the light. We are go- 
ing high into the mountains where the air shall 
purify. There, there perhaps I shall be able to for- 
get. (She turns to the doctor) Come, my beloved. 
(She is almost in his arms hut suddenly 
from the window there is a mad little yelp 
of rage and the next instant Lucrezia 
springs forward confronting her, burning in- 
domitable) 
Alfred. (As the beautiful structure of similes 
tumbles) She! She! I thought she'd gone. 

Pagello. (As tho shot) Lucrezia, you! You! 
George. (Quite calmly) Good evening, Madame. 
Did you climb up the columns to the balcony .? 

Lucrezia. You shall not take him. You shall 
not. 

George. What, Madame .^^ 
Lucrezia. I shall kill you. 
[102] 



[ActWi MADAME SAND 

George. (Oblivious) I can't see how you ever 
did it in those skirts. 

LucREZiA. (A mixture of temper and tears) 
Pietro, Pietronini, caro mio, caro mio — you no 
longer love me — me. (She is shrieking) Dio, — Ma- 
donna — you no longer love me. 

George. I beg you, Madame, not to shout. My 
friend Monsieur de Musset is none too strong. 
Won't you be seated? 

(And George sits down at the table unbut- 
toning the lowest button of her vest) 

LucREZiA. Who are you.^^ What are you.'' You 
crazy woman ! (Her fingers are twitching) You 
woman in breeches dressed like that. 

Pagello. Lucrezia, be still, be still. 

LucREZiA. (Poco fortissimo) No! No! She 
must listen. No ! No ! 

George. I am trying to, Madame, but you make 
so much noise. I cannot hear you. 

Lucrezia. (Piu forte) I make noise! No! No! 
I make no noise! 

(She is almost dancing in her rage) 

George. What a fascinating personality! 

(And she goes over to her desk and brings 
over some manuscript paper and a pen) 

Lucrezia. I spit at you. 

George. No, I wouldn't do that. It isn't nice. 

Lucrezia. Nice ! Nice ! I dig my nails in your 
heart. 

George. (Sweetly) My dear girl, save up all 

[103] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

that energy and one of these days you'll bring beau- 
tiful children into this ugly world. I am a mother 
and I know. 

(LucREziA suddenly whips the stiletto from 
under her shawl and springs towards 
Geoege) 
LucREZiA. You sneer, you short-haired French one. 
{And she makes a dash towards her, Pa- 
GEiiLo catches her hy the wrist and the 
knife falls to the floor) 
Pagello. For God's sake, what are you doing .'^ 
George. {Calmly taking notes) Ah! What a 
place to end a chapter. 

Pageli.0. {Struggling with the girl) Do you 
know who she is.'' 

Lucrezia. {Trying to get away) What do I 
care who, what she is. 

Pagello. {With a sort of awe) She is the great 
George Sand. 

{And George glances up from her writ- 
ing smilingly to accept the compliment) 
Pagello. She is a famous woman. A great writer. 
(AiiFRED is leaning far out of bed clutch- 
ing one of the posts) 
Alfred. Have you no respect for literature? 
Lucrezia. {In blinding scorn, sizzling over like 
a miniature Vesuvius) Literature! What do I care 
— literature, lies, lies. I too know literature. {And 
then in her rage she flings out all the names she can 
remember y mixing geography with letters to justify 
[104] 



[Act II] MADAME SAND 

her claim) Dante, Dante, Alighieri, Tasso, Cam- 
panile, San Marco, Venezia, Ariosto, Petrarca, 
Laura. Literature, Bah! bah! — ^lies, lies! I spit 
at them. I spit at you. 

{She is again going for' George wildly 

gesticulating and Pagello again intercepts 

her. Suddenly in a wild paroxysm of passion 

she clutches him to her breast. By this 

time Alfred is almost tumhlvng out of bed 

and George sits quietly writing) 

LucREZiA. {Clingvng to him, her voice hot with 

passion and rage) I love you. I hate you. I love 

you. I speak your name when I sleep; when I go 

to the well the water says, Pietro, and I drink, and 

drink, and drink. 

George. ( Writing as quickly as she can) Charm- 
ing, charming. Do you mind repeating that? How 
many times did you say drink .^^ Alfred, what does 
fiction know of life.^^ 

(LucREZiA clings to Pagello as to a spar 
in this tossvng sea of passion) 
LucREZiA. Pietro ! Pietronini ! 
Alfred. {Looking at George and speakvng into 
the curtain of his bed) God! That woman, even 
now she can write. 

George. Ah! What a scene this will make when 
I'm thru with it. Such fervor, such reality. Buloz 
will be delighted. 

(Pagello has forced Lucrezia into a 
chair. In a frenzy her fists beat the table) 

[105] 



MADAME SAND [Act II] 

George. Don't do that, my dear, or I can't 
write. 

(And then Lucrezia, her passion for the 

moment spent, goes forward, her head in her 

arms, shaken with conmilsive weeping. And 

then George springs up and goes over to 

her. Her whole manner changes. She speaks 

to her as she would to an angry child) 

George. You have my pity, Madame. I speak 

to you out of my soul. I too have loved and lost. 

(Sorrowfully she glances at Alfred) That is the 

lot of us poor women. We give our love only to be 

forsaken. 

Pagei.i.0. (Half in a whisper, half stupidly) I 
wanted to tell you, tell you all. 

George. No, no, don't speak. I understand. 
(And then with a tone of universal pity) We are 
but human. (By a glance she even includes Alfred 
in her deep love for humanity. Then sympathetically 
to Lucrezia) Life has spoken and life must be an- 
swered. He has come to save me when my nature 
faltered and he shall go with me — eventually — to 
Paris. 

(And at this Lucrezia springs up. This 
is the last straw. Again her rage begins to 
bubble) 
Lucrezia. No. No. 

George. Not right away. After we have found 
love in the Alpine valleys. Ah, the scent of the al- 
mond blossoms. 
[106] 



[Act 11^ MADAME SAND 

LucREZiA. (Turning on Pageli^o) You have de- 
ceived me. Dio ! Dio ! You have lied to me. You 
have deserted me. 

George. (Gliding between them) Madame, you 
are wrong. He has not deserted you. God has sent 
him. 

LucREziA. No ! No ! 

George. Who can change the choice of love.'' It 
is as blind as we. 

LucREZiA. (Bi/ this time strident) No! No! 
You shall not take him. You shall not take him. 

George. Love is our master. (This is almost to 
herself. A sad little smile plays about her lips) 

LucREziA. (Glaring at her) You! You oil 
your words with lies. 

(George is standing in a sort of subli- 
mated ecstasy lit by the light from the night 
lamp. The music sounds from the serenata. 
Alfred on the bed's edge sits matching her 
in wonder) 
George. (Her head shaking slowly) Love gives 
us power^ — power but to obey. 

Lucrezia. (Almost frightened) Pietro! Look! 
The devil's speaking to her. Come away. Her heart 
is black. 

(A moment's pause. They all look at her. 

Then she takes a deep pull at her cigar and 

goes over to her desk to make a note of this 

power of love) 

George. (To Lucrezia. From the farthest 

[107] 



MADAME SAND {Act II] 

heights of sisterly sympathy) Madame, you have 
my love. 

(LucREZiA makes another dash for the 
knife, Pagello stops her) 
George. Take her to her gondola, Pietro. (Ai.- 
FRED starts) I shall watch from the window. 

{And Pagello attempts to lead the strug- 
gling LucREZiA from the room) 
LucREziA. {In a last wild frenzy) You shall not 
take him. No! No! 

George. {Quietly) Love has spoken. 

(Pagello and the girl have almost reached 
the door) 
LucREziA. I'll follow him. I'll save him. He will 
come back to me. 

Ai^ERED. {Involuntarily) I wonder. 
LucREZiA. I will follow you to Paris or^ — to Hell. 
{She is half kissing^ half beating the doc- 
tor as he leads her from the room) 
George. {At her desk making a last note or so) 
What a wonderful girl. The most splendid type I 
have seen in Italy. Ah, I shall be sad to go. 

{And then she glides over to the wi/ndow 
and leans out to see that no harm comes to 
Pietro ) 
Alfred. {Lifting up the sheets of manuscript 
near the bed) Look, George, I have been reading 
your last few pages. They are wonderful. How 
you have moved me. If I could write as you — 
George. I'll do even better after to-night. Ah! 
[108] 



[Act II] MADAME SAND 

There they are! She is weeping. How gently he 
helps her into her gondola. 

(Alfred braces himself with another swal- 
low of brandy and steps towards her) 

Alfred. There is something besides farewell that 
I must say to you. 

George. (^Oblivious) He shall be the hero of my 
next romance. 

Alfred. {With a strange note of seriousness in 
his voice) Some day, George, this love of yours 
will break your heart. 

George. {Almost tragically) You say that af- 
ter what you have doiie to me. {Then again at the 
window^ her voice low and tender) Look, Freddo, 
they are weeping. 

Alfred. {For a moment succumbing to her 
mood) You will never know what you have meant 
to me. 

George. {Almost sobbing) Ah, my friend, do 
not let the sorrow of our parting break your heart. 
Some day you will forget me. 

Alfred. {Sadly) If such is fate. 

George. {Almost sternly) Our fate is what we 
make it. 

Alfred. {With a note of bitterness) Do you 
remember that night in Paris ? "We are but marion- 
ettes," you said. 

George. {Her voice soft again) Pietro — my 

Pietro — 

[109] 



MADAME SAND \[Act II] 

Alfred. "Hung from the fingers of the gods." 
Heine stopped you as he broke his bread. 

George. He eats too much. Besides Heine is a 
German and I mistrust him. 

Alfred. That is true of all of us, he echoed. 

George. ( Again leaning out) Look at his pro- 
file in the moonlight. Worthy of Giorgione. I shall 
love him forever. 

Alfred. You too, George — even you — must jig 
to this music of fate. 

George. (Lyric, dominant, speaking as a priest- 
ess with a prophecy) There is no such thing as 
fate. That is what life has still to teach you. Fate 
is the death cry of the coward. I at least am mis- 
tress of my destiny. 

Alfred. {With a touch of cynicism, perhaps of 
anger in his voice) We shall see. 

George. {In glory) Look! He is coming back. 
Yes, we shall see. 

{And she rushes over to the door and 
stands anwiously waiting, and in a moment 
she is in Pietro's arms) 

George. Ah! How noble you were, my Pietro, 
and she, — she will forget. 

Alfred. {Sotto voce) Perhaps. 

George. {Sadly to Alfred) It is time to say 
farewell. Once our love was noble. May our friend- 
ship still be beautiful. 

{And she gives him her hand. Alfred 
bends over it) 
[110] 



[ActW} MADAME SAND 

Pagello. {Catching the mood) Alfred, will 
we, — we still be friends? 

A1.FRED. {Magni^cently rising to the beauty of 
the moment) George, — Pagello, — my companions, 
my saviors, and my friends! {Then to Pagello) 
You have given life back to me. {And then to 
George) You have taught me the nobility of love. 
In my silence read my gratitude. How shall we 
seal our trinity of trust? 

{Their three hands are almost touching. 
Suddenly he sees Lucrezia's stiletto at their 
feet. He cannot resist the romantic effect. 
He takes it up) 
Alfred. On this let us pledge our faith! 
George. Yes ! On this symbol of death we shall 
pledge our love that shall survive the tomb. 

Pagello. {Not quite liking the sight of Lucre- 
zia's stiletto) No! No! Not on that! On this. 
It has never known hate ! 

{And he tears out from under his shirt 
his mother^s picture. Their hands close 
about it. The light in the night lamp flickers. 
George. {Solemnly — lyrically) Forever friends. 
Alfred. {Echoing) Friends. 
Pagello. {On the verge of tears) Friends. 
George. And now farewell. Come, we shall see 
the sun rise, Pietro, and then to Padua. 

{They are about to move. Then Pagello 
stops embarrassed) 

[111] 



MADAME SAND {Act II] 

Pagello. But — I — 
George. What? What? 

Pagello. I have but (His hand comes out of 
his pocket) I'm but a poor practitioner — ^look, seven 
lires. (And he holds them out) I have a little 
money in my office but most of what I make goes 
to my mother. 

(George rushes over to her desk and flings 
the drawer open) 
George. (On the brink of disaster) Only yes- 
terday the bill was paid. There is no money. 

(A pause. Imminent tragedy/. Pagello 
is in despair, George for the second time i/n> 
siw months is on the verge of szaooning. Al- 
fred sees his freedom tumbling; but sud- 
denly he ju/mps into the breach and to the 
rescue. He rushes over and snatches from 
under his pillow the money that his mother 
has sent him) 
Alfred. Here, my friends, go, go. Love must 
be obeyed. Here are a thousand francs. 

(He forces the money into Pagello's 
hand) 
George. (Gazing at him in admiring wonder) 
Alfred ! Alfred ! You have redeemed our love. 

(And again their three hands are clasped^ 
this time over the money) 
George. Come, love has saved us. We will see 
the sun rise after all. And then to Padua. Al- 
[112] 



[Act II] MADAME SAND 

fred, see Pietro's papa and have his things and my 
other trousers sent there, poste restante. 

{And she snatches her new manuscript 
from her writing desk and they are gone, 
and the door slams behind them and in the 
reverberating echoes Alfred is heard laugh- 
ing softly. Then he calls) 
Alfred. Paul. Paul. 

Paul. (Rushing in) You've kept me waiting. 
Alfred. (Significantly) History was in the 
making. 

Paul. And? 

Alfred. (Leaning against the bed post) They're 
gone. 

Paul. If you had only left it to me (Alfred 
laughs ) Aren't you laughing to hide something that 
hurts ? 

Alfred. Hurts! I am healed. (Gayly) I 
haven't felt better since Paris. 

Paul. And what will mother say to this? 
Alfred. God bless her. She has saved me. 
Paul. Mother? 

Alfred. Yes. The thousand francs she sent me. 
Her money pays their way. She's bought me back. 
(But the emotional strain has been too much for 
him. Then weakly) God help Pagello. Who's 
next? History will complete the catalogue. San- 
deau — Merimee — ^De Musset — Pa^ — 

(The curtain is descending as he speaks. 
The list is incompleted, whilst from the 

[113] 



MADAME SAND [[Act II] 

Canal the tenor^s voice again singing of love 
for a little moment, lifts in poignant ecstasy 
and then dies away in the starlit stillness of 
the night) 



[114] 



ACT III 



. . . and Liszt plays on. 



ACT III 

The scene is a reception at Baron de Rothschild*s, 
The room is a typical drawing-room of the period, 
panelled, severe, dignified, with a sense of quiet 
spaciousness. The furniture does not clutter the 
stage. What there is should he exquisite in design 
and lend to the general air of distinction. Down left 
is a fireplace, and below this is a door with a smaller 
drawing-room beyond. Down right is the entrance 
to the conservatory. Towards the rear is the en- 
trance from the hall of the house and to the right 
of this a great door beyond which is the music room. 
If practical throughout the act, the guests should 
be seen coming and going, because, while not abso- 
lutely necessary, this will add to the refinedly expec- 
tant atmosphere of this soiree of tuft-hunters and 
celebrities. Later on a charming effect could be 
realized if the people in the picturesque costumes 
of the period could be seen, rapt and ecstatic, listen- 
ing to the playing of the virtuosi. I leave the pos- 
sible arrangement of the room beyond to the genius 
of the scene designer. It is not inevitably essential 
to the action of the play. The lighting is candle 
light, low, soft, rather too little than too glaringly 
distinct. ThrougJiout the act a sound of admiring 

[117] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

murmurs and subdued applause should he heard 
from the music room. 

The curtain lifts on three pretty chattering girls, 
quaint, beruffled, heribboned. Two are on a long 
sofa and one is opposite or vice versa, rearranged 
as best accords with the charm of the decoration. It 
is the first great reception for these three demoiselles 
and their hearts and tongues are aflutter; hut now 
the curtain is lifted and you can see and hear for 
yourself. They are Mlle. de Latour, Mlle. Ro- 
LANDE and Mlle. de Fleury. 

Mlle. de Fleury. I think we are too early. 

Mlle Rolande. I am afraid I exasperated 
mamma. She's in the little drawing-room. I 
couldn't wait until we'd started. 

Mlle. de Fleury. How adorable of the Baron 
to ask us. 

Mlle. Rolande. It was surely the idea of the 
Baroness. 

Mlle. de Fleury. What matter! We're here. 
And as every one is going to be so important, there 
may as well be a few who are pretty. 

{And they laugh like children) 
Do you like my new gown? 

Mlle. Rolande. Quite adorable but I think I 
like you in gray better. 

Mlle. de Fleury. Nonsense! {And she turns 

to Mlle. de Latour to ash her opinion^ but Mlle. 

DE Latour siis deep in thought) Elise, don't try 

to hide your excitement by attempting to look bored. 

[118] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Mlle. de Latour. I was just wondering how 
many pages of my diary I would need to write about 
everything to-night. (She looks at a huge hook she 
holds in her lap) 

Mlle. de Fleury. a hundred at least. (Then 
with ill-concealed excitement) Do you know who 
is coming .f^ 

Mlle. Rolande. De Musset and Heine. 

The Other Girls. Yes ! Yes ! 

Mlle. Rolande. And the great Franz Liszt. 

Mljle. de Fleury. And his rival Thalberg? 

Mlle. Rolande. I do not think so. They are 
seldom seen together. 

Mlle. de Fleury. Who else? Who else.? 

Mlle. Rolande. Surely the Italian, Pagello. 
I saw him in the Palais Royal leaning on her arm 
(She gives a quivering stress to the "her*^) 

Mlle. de Fleury. Is *he a blond.? I think 
blonds are so wonderful. 

Mlle. Rolande. No, he is more wonderful than 
any blond. He looks like Paris of Troy. 

Mlle. de Latour. How do you know that? 

Mlle. de Fleury. Elise, you have the silliest 
way of asking things. 

(And again they laugh merrily) 

Mlle. Rolande. And Chopin, imagine, Chopin! 

Mlle. de Fleury. Will he play? 

Mlle. Rolande. If the whim moves him. Of 
course the Baroness would never ask him. 

Mlle. de Latour. I don't see why not. 

[119] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

Mlle. de Fleury. Elise, you are too absurd. 
How could one have the atrocious taste to ask a 
guest to perform? These artists are not trained 
monkeys who will run up a stick when you want 
them to. 

Mlle. Rolande. I do not suppose we can ever 
understand them. Ah! these artists — they are so 
different from us ordinary mortals. 

Mlle. de Latour. Yes? 

Mlle. Rolande. They are not moved by human 
passions as you and I. 

Mli.e. de Fleury. No. No. 

Mlle. Rolande. Their life is aloof, — removed — 
they do not suffer as we suffer. 

Mlle. de Fleury. No. No. 

Mlle. de Latour. (Quite unsentimentally) I 
do not suffer. 

Mlle. Rolande. Wait till you are a little older, 
Elise. Ah, have you seen this Pagello? I have 
been dreaming of him every night. 

Mlle. de Fleury. I would give all the world 
if I could be a great artist, — a writer. There are 
only four things I love: literature, art, music and 
nature. Ah! — imagine what it would mean to see 
one's name in the Revue of the great Buloz. 

Mlle. Rolande. He's coming too. 

Mlle. de Latour. I am more anxious to see her 
than any of the others. 

Mlle. Rolande. {With awed voice) Her! 
[120] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Mlle. de Fleury. {As though addressing God) 
Her! 

Mlle. Rolande. She is removed from earthly 
passions. She lives in a sphere apart. 

Mli.e. de Latour. What do you mean by that? 

Mlle. de Fleury. Elise, you ask as many ques- 
tions as a hungry parrot. 

(And they all hurst into ripples of laugh- 
ter. Some guests pass through the room be- 
yond) 

Mlle. R01.ANDE. She is the greatest woman in 
France. 

Mli.e. de Fleury. {In astonished contradiction) 
In France, Mathilde.P Why in the whole, whole 
world. 

Mli.e. de Latour. I do not see how you can de- 
cide that. 

Mele. de Fleury. ( To silence her forever) No ? 
Have you ever read {She lowers her voice) 
"Leha".? 

Mele. de Latour. No. 

Meee. Roeande. Mamma forbids me to read any 
books of hers {Again the religious intonation^ 

Meee. Feeury. So does mine but my maid bought 
"Lelia" for me. I sat up all night reading it and 
I wept and wept and wept. I never enjoyed myself 
so much. 

Meee. de Latour. Because you wept? 

Meee. Roeande. Of course. Elise, you are too 
funny. 

[121] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

(And the two girls laugh together) 
Mlle. de Latour. I shall ask her to write in my 
album. I brought it with me. 

Mlle. de Fleury. (Springing to her feet as 
though shot) Elise, my dear, you wouldn't do 
that! One can see that you went to school in the 
country. Why, I'd rather cut off my little finger 
than even dare speak to her. 

Mi.le. de Latour. I can't see why not. 

(Some guests preceded hy a lackey pass 
through the room) 
Mlle. Rolande. (Over at the door) Quick, 
my dears, quick, some one has arrived. 

Mlle. de Fleury. We mustn't miss anything. 
Who.? Who.? 

Mlle. de Latour. (Laconically) It oughtn't 
take more than three pages of my diary. 

(Some people pass into the conservatory 

and the three girls -flutter after them. And 

then the door is opened hy a lachey and 

BuLoz enters. He is somewhat nervous. 

With him is Pageleo and at their heels is 

Heine ) 

BuEoz. (To Pagello, pointing to the little 

room on the left) You can wait in there, Doctor, 

if you wish to. 

Pageleo. But I do not understand. What has 
happened? I was to meet Mme. Sand and she was 
to present me to the Baron. 

BuLOz. I don't think she has arrived yet. The 
[122] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

moment she comes I will send for you. You will 
excuse me — I should say us. I have something im- 
portant to say to Heine. 

Pagello. Of course. {He steps towards the 
door) 

BuLOZ. Business, you know, literary business. 
It's terrible being the editor of a magazine. You 
will find some charming books on the table in there. 

Heine. Nothing medical. Doctor, I'm afraid, 
but perhaps something of Mme. Sand's. 

(And BuLOz almost pushes Pagello out 
of the room and quickly closes the door he- 
hind him. Then he turns very excitedly to 
Heine) 

BuLoz. But, good God, what are we to do.'' 

Heine. Don't talk so quickly. Give me a mo- 
ment to think. 

BuLOz, In a moment that girl will be up. Noth- 
ing will stop her. I asked her to wait. I told her 
I'd bring Pagello down. George will be here any 
second. She's dining with Liszt. He's bringing her 
here. 

Heine. We've a moment then. That means 
they'll talk late. 

BuLoz. Yes — 

Heine. How did you prevent Pagello seeing this 
Italian ? 

BuLOZ. Whilst he was leaving his cloak I man- 
aged to get her into the picture gallery. It was 

[123] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

by the merest chance I was at the door. As soon as 
she asked for him I knew something was wrong. 

Heine. Who is she? 

BuLoz. His mistress. She had a letter with her. 
Some enemy of George has sent the girl money to 
come from Venice. 

Heine. Our enemies are the price we pay for 
fame. 

BuLoz. What shall we do.^* 

Heine. (Is silent for a moment in thought and 
then) It would be best to wait until to-morrow. 

BuiiOZ. By to-morrow they may be gone. 

Heine. She will be able to bear it better when he 
is no longer in Paris. 

BuLoz. It will break her heart if she is separated 
from him. 

Heine. I wonder — 

BuLOz. She has never loved like this before. 
There is something mysterious, something hidden 
about it. 

Heine. The hidden is not always the mysterious. 
But when you say hidden perhaps you are right. 

BuLoz. It's not as it was with de Musset. It's 
deeper, more profound. 

Heine. How do you know that.? 

BuLoz. Because she doesn't find time to write 
me letters telling me about her heart. 

Heine. (Slowly) Perhaps she's reading it and 
hasn't time to write. 

BuLoz. {Thinking it out) If we don't tell her 
[124] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

the girl has come she'll never forgive us for not 
warning her and if we do it may kill her. 

Heine. Think of the Remie. Don't tell her. 
BuLoz. I must. 
Heine. Why ? 

BuLOZ. Because she's the one woman in Paris 
who would know how to find a way to prevent it. 
What shall we do? 

Heine. First find our chessman, if we're to play 
the game. I'll see if George is in the music room. 
Keep Pagello in there until I warn you. Then we 
must get him home. 

(And as he goes into the music room and 
BuLoz m to guard Pagello some guests 
cross the stage on their way to the conserv- 
atory. As they enter the chatter of voices 
is heard and a moment later a lackey opens 
the door and Fuanz Liszt comes in, and with 
him is George. She is in an elaborate even- 
ing gown. Perhaps it is a little unusual, the 
conventional might even say a bit bizarre but 
nevertheless she looJcs extraordinarily hand- 
some and though her soul is sad she has made 
the most of the beautiful shoulders which 
Heine so much adTnired. Liszt is thin, pale, 
distinguished, cesthetic, but not of the 
exquisite fragility of Chopin, who is also on 
his way to the reception. He is a queer mix- 
ture of impetuosity and method. A surpris- 
ing streak of practicality governs his pyro- 

[125] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

technic nature. George's manner is fraught 
with melancholy and deep intentions) 

Liszt. These Parisian dinners, George — 

George. I'm telling you this, Franz, because you 
know the human heart. 

Liszt. If I do it is because I do not try to. But 
why haven't you told Buloz? 

George. Because he wouldn't understand. 

Liszt. And Heine .? 

George. Because he would understand too well. 
It's you I may need as I did this morning. He has 
come. He wouldn't stay at home. 

Liszt. Your Pagello is a fool. 

George. Poor boy, he never wants to leave me. 
He's afraid of being alone. He's insensible. 

Liszt. Quite ! Quite ! 

George. Weeks ago it was over and he still stays 
on. 

Liszt. Seeking the oasis in the desert of your 
heart. 

George. I can still respect his simplicity, but I 
can no longer love his naivete. 

Liszt. He needed his background of lagoons. 

George. (Sadly, reminiscently) Perhaps, per- 
haps. 

Liszt. Alas, "Leila" — how circumstances alter 
love. 

George. Can you expect me to be untrue to my 
soul? 

[126] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Liszt. {Subtly) If jou mean by that your in- 
stincts — no, never! 

George. I was blind. What I thought was his 
purity I have found to be his emptiness. 

Liszt. Lelia, I too have learned from life that 
nothing is so unlovely as the thing one used to love. 
Some day I shall write, shall I call it a symphonic 
poem with that idea for theme? Three movements, 
hope, — love — disillusion. Disillusion in the violins 
struggling against love in the wood-winds. Write 
the program for me, Lelia. 

George. {Disregardmg the digression) He has 
cost me dearly. 

Liszt. Yes, spending emotion leaves one poor. 

George. I have ceased to love him and ( With a 
tone like a funeral knell) ceasing to love him I have 
ceased to love forever. 

Liszt. When one says forever one is apt to for- 
get to-morrow. Something must be done. He can't 
spend the rest of his life going from hospital to 
hospital studying these diseases. It isn't healthy. 

George. No, you are right. 

Liszt. Heine hasn't decided which is dearer to 
Pagello, you or these gall-stones. 

George. Do not speak unkindly of him, Franz. 

Liszt. Why, all you had to do was to look at his 
perfect profile to realize his limitations. 

George. That is the way a man reasons. A 
woman only feels and knows she is right. 

Liszt. And when the feelings change? 

[127] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

George. (Sadly) Life is calling us to school. 

Liszt. Paris has soon wearied of this moony 
medico. 

George. He was once dear to me. (And then 
almost tenderly) He still imagines that he loves 
me. 

Liszt. Poor Pagello ! Why, any man knows that 
love is over the day the woman begins telling herself 
that it will last forever. 

George. (Very melancholy, thinhing perhaps 
more of herself than Pagello) Yes, yes. 

Liszt. And when will this be over? 

George. (Quite simply) If things happen as I 
plan, to-night. 

Liszt. And how.'' 

George. (As though she might he saying ^^good 
morning^') I am sending him back to Venice. 

(And Liszt loolcs up barely concealing 
his astonishment) 

Liszt. What.? 

George. (In explanation) It breaks my heart 
to see the poor boy suffer. 

Liszt. (With a smile) So, so, — and that is why 
you're out of mourning. 

George. (In the dark) Mourning.? 

Liszt. Yes, this is the first time since Italy that 
Paris has seen your shoulders. And how does Lelia 
manage this with Pietro.? 

George. He will leave to-night for Lyons.. 

Liszt. (Smiling ever so little) Poor Pagello! 
[128] 



[Act III} MADAME SAND 

Poor poodle! He entered Paris a triumphant cap- 
tive of love and now he goes back alone. 

George. No, not alone. A month ago a letter 
arrived from Castelfranco and with that letter my 
salvation. 

Liszt. Salvation by post? 

George. {Ohlivious) Yes, yes. 

Liszt. Why not, salvation is such a little thing. 
Just what one wants at the moment. 

George. ( Continuing) Suddenly everything was 
clear to me. I got money from Buloz on my new 
book. Pagello is the hero. {And then quite uncon- 
scious of the subtle truth she is speaking) The 
book is almost finished. 

Liszt. So is Pagello. 

George. Of this money I sent her enough to 
come to Paris. 

Liszt. Ah! His mother .^^ 

George. No ! No ! I am done with fathers and 
with mothers. 

Liszt. If not his mother, then — (He looks at her 
questioningly) 

George. Yes, you are right. His mistress. The 
letter came as from any anonymous sympathetic 
friend of Pietro's here in Paris. 

Liszt. {In admiration) So.^^ 

George. Ah, I can tell you, Franz, that friend 
did not spare George Sand. 

Liszt. Then his mistress is the woman I met at 
the coach this morning? 

[129] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

George. Yes, she will follow him here. 
Liszt. Here? 

George. I came to-night because my soul needed 
the consolation of the music. As I tell you, he would 
not stay at home; but I left word where he was 
going. 

Liszt. Swift as my technic, Lelia. You act as 
quickly as I play my scales. (And he runs his fin- 
gers through the air) 

George. If I know her, and I think I do, she will 
come to-night and fetch him. I cannot stand the 
strain a moment longer. It must end at once. I 
am saving him, Franz. His sadness breaks my 
heart. 

Liszt. Alas, we poor men are but threads be- 
tween the shears. (And he makes a snapping little 
movement as though cutting the thread in two. Then 
suddenly) Ah! That would make a splendid finger 
exercise. (And he begins trying it over and over) 
Do you know that Chopin is going to play to-night .^^ 

George. (Looking up) Why has he refused to 
meet me? 

Liszt. Because being an artist he has little time 
for art. Besides I don't think he likes you. He's 
very shy. 

George. (As though trying to explain it to her- 
self) There is something in his music as of desire, 
chained. 

Liszt. He is the greatest artist in the world, 
save one. 
[130] 



[Act III} MADAME SAND 

George. Thalberg? 

Liszt. (Angrily/) No, no, one Liszt. Franz 
Liszt. If the women keep away long enough to 
allow him to practice the world will hear of him. 

George. And what of Chopin? Do the women 
bother him? These Poles are so romantic. 

Liszt. Poor Frederick, he has just recovered. 
He and the Wodzinska. They loved as children and 
because she was a woman she has married some one 
else. It nearly broke his heart. 

George. (Deeply) Life is cruel and the most 
sensitive to beauty are those who suffer most. The 
other night at de Custines when he was playing it 
was as though a soul were singing — seeking. 

(And at this moment the three girls appear 
in the doorway whispering together and try- 
ing not to seem too rudely interested in the 
celebrities ) 
George. Ah, we are early, Franz. But it is just 
as well. I shall come back here and sit alone to 
listen to the music. Sorrow is but unwelcome com- 
pany. (And she sighs deeply as she glances at the 
three girls) Come, Franz, where is the Baron? 
I must say good evening. 

LiszT. They are receiving in the conservatory. 
George. Come. 

(And she goes into the conservatory, fol- 
lowed by Liszt) 
Mlle. Rolande. That was she. 
Mlle. de Fleury. (Breathless) Yes, yes! 

[131] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

Mlle. de Latour. Was that Pagello? 

Mlle. Rolande. Nonsense, that was Chopin. 

Mlle. de Fleury. No, my dear, I'm sure it was 
de Musset. Chopin is taller. 

Mlle. Rolande. Did you notice how she glanced 
at us.f^ Let us follow them. 

Mlle. de Fleury. Do you think we ought.? 

Mlle. de Latour. Why not.? 

Mlle. Rolande. We can stay at the other side 
of the room and seem not to be watching them. 

Mlle. de Fleury. Isn't it all just wonderful.? 
Did you like her dress.? 

Mlle. Rolande. That certainly was last year's 
bodice. 

Mlle. de Latour. Let's go after them. 

The Other Girls. Yes ! Yes ! 

(And they follow George aw^ Liszt into 
the conservatory as Heine comes in from 
the mwsic room. He goes over to the door 
of the little drawing-room and calls Buloz) 

BuLoz. (Entering) Well.? 

Heine. She's come. They are in the conserv- 
atory. Only a few are ahead of them. They'll be 
back in a second. 

BuLoz. They mustn't see each other. God knows 
what'll happen to George if that woman takes Pa- 
gello away from her. She mustn't break down for 
my sake. 

Heine. Your sake? 

BuLoz. She's promised me three chapters before 
[132] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

morning. We go to press at ten. Did you see how 
that Italian woman looked? 

Heine. Silent as a pool before the storm. 
BuLOZ. If it were the old George she'd meet her 
match. 

Heine. George is unmatchable. 
BuLoz. (At his wifs end) Well, what will come 
of it.? 

Heine. I can hear Olympus rumbling with al- 
mighty laughter. 

{And indeed at this moment there is a 
sound of voices from the hall) 
BuLoz. Chopin has arrived. Hear them buzz. 
Heine. (Mischievously/, with a sort of impish 
prophecy) The toy box is too crowded. Some of 
the dolls will be broken. Pagello — George — this girl 
— and Chopin come in the nick of time, perhaps, to 
play an obligate to their parting. (He begins laugh- 
ing quietly to himself) The gods are busy at the 
strings. Come, Buloz, let us dance, dance! 

(And at this moment from one side of 
the stage enters Chopin escorted by a lackey 
and from the conservatory opposite comes 
George followed by Liszt. And as they 
come forward George and Frederick stop 
and look at each other even as Tristan and 
Isolde and as all other mortals who are 
doomed to love have looked since the begin- 
ning of time when Adam — or was it Eve — 
looked and thus began the trouble) 

[133] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

Liszt. (RuMng forward to Chofin) Frederick! 
(And Chopin speaks. He is fragile, ex- 
quisite, spiritual. There is something about 
him as of flame and sleep. He is simple and 
profound, childlike and dominant, his whims 
are emotional necessities. He is part reticent 
reserve and part sudden irritability. Withal 
he is a genius mho in the words of Balzac 
was less a musician than a soul which makes 
itself audible) 
Chopin. Good evening, Franz. Ah, Heine, — 
Buloz — 

Heine. ( With elaborate and fantastic ceremony) 
May it be my privilege to present the matchless 
composer of the B Minor Scherzo to the peerless 
creator of the immortal Lelia. 

(And George gives Chopin her hand and 
he bends over to press it to his lips) 
Chopin. (Kissing her fingers) Madame. 
George. (As their eyes meet as he straightens 
up) You have suffered, that is why you can sing. 
You must come some time with Franz to see me. 
Chopin. Madame. 

(He again bows and she turns to Heine) 
Liszt. (To Chopin) Shall I present you to the 
Baron ? 

(And as Liszt and Chopin cross to the 
right of the stage Heine and George cross 
to the left) 
[134] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Liszt. (Low to Chopin) What do you think of 
her? 

Chopin. (Lorn to Liszt) Her eyes are too large 
but she is less impossible than I thought. 

Heine. (Low to George) What do you think of 
him.f^ 

George. (Low to Heine) His chin is weak but 
he is more of a man than I had imagined. 

(And at this moment the three girls ap- 
pear, still hunting the celebrities, and as 
Chopin and Liszt go in to the conservator^/ 
Liszt stops to chat with them and then he 
and the adoring girls exit to follow Chopin) 
George. (Sitting down) Chopin alone can 
make this party bearable. The Baron is a charming 
gentleman, but his guests are too wealthy to be any- 
thing but stupid. 

BuLoz. (Aside to Heine) What shall I do.? 
Heine. Tell her now. 

BuLOZ. (Coming forward — nervously) Good 
evening, George. 

George. Ah, Buloz. Now I know what you're 
going to say. 

(BuLoz starts) 

Heine. Not this time, George. 

George. Heine, please don't begin quoting Faust 

in that horrid guttural German, and you, Buloz, 

don't jump at my throat and shriek for those last 

two chapters. You shall have them by to-morrow. 

[135] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

Heine. (Tricing to lead up) Perhaps you 
mayn't write to-night, George. 

George. Nothing but death can stop me. 
BuLoz. (Desperately) Why should we beat 
about the bush.'^ 

George. (Lightly) Why not.^^ That's one way 
of stirring the birds to sing. 

Heine. To sing.? First they may fly away. 
George. Questing the eternal fires of the dawn. 
Ah, that's a fine phrase. 

(And she takes a tiny pencil fro7n> a little 
bag hanging at her waist and jots down the 
words on one of the panels of her fan) 
BuLoz. (Guardedly, darkly, attempting to he- 
gin^ George, I believe in you. 

George. (Lightly) Of course you do. Don't 
you print me.^^ 

BuLoz. (Lugubriously) George — 
George. You sound as if you were reciting Cor- 
neille. 

(He hesitates and looks across the room 
for help from Heine, but Heine is deep in a 
book he has lifted from the table) 
BuLOz. (Clearing his throat and attempting to 
go on) You are strong, you can control — 

(Embarrassed he stops short) 
George. Are you writing my obituary.? 
BuLoz. Be brave. Remember you have children. 
(And George springs up and for a sec- 
[186] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

ond goes white and leans half fainting against 
her chair) 
George. My God ! My children ! Maurice, So- 
lange. Have they fever? Are they dead? 

BuLOZ. No, George, it is not your children, 
but— 

{And the next second the light breaks in 
George's face and she can hardly suppress 
an exclamation of long hoped for relief. And 
all the while Heine stands scrutinizing her) 
George. What is it? Tell me. Tell me. 
BuLoz. (Speaking very slowly. He is doing his 
stumbling best to keep from hurting her too sud- 
denly) Remember, France, the world, has need of 
you. 

George. Is it all preface? Begin — Begin. 
BuiiOz. (He stops and wipes his monocle) Well — 
George. Yes. 

BuLoz. (Carefully, with deep pity for her, 
watching the effect) Pagello's mistress has come 
from Italy. 

(And to his amazement she takes the news 
quite calmly. Indeed in a way that puzzles 
him. But Heine's eyes^ never leave her face) 
George. Lucrezia ? 

BuLOz. She is waiting in the hall for him. 
George. (Solemnly, as though she felt Heine's 
eyes) It is the hand of heaven. Fate doesn't mean 
that I should keep him from her any longer. 

(And a sound of voices is heard beyond in 

[1373 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

the hall — A lachey''s and a woman's voice m 
remonstrance and the door is thrown open 
and LucREziA rushes in) 

LucREZiA. He is here, I tell you. I will wait no 
longer. (Then she sees Geoege) You! You! 
Where are your breeches .f^ 

BuLoz. Not so loud, Madame. The greatest pian- 
ist in the world is about to improvise in the music 
room. 

Heine. Whilst fate is improvising here. {And 
then almost inaudibly) Fate — or George. 

LucREZiA. (Threateningly to George) Once be- 
fore you drove him dumb with your words. This 
time I shall speak. 

George. (Quite unflustered) Yes, apparently, 
apparently. And how is Venice? Do tame nightin- 
gales still sing on every balcony and are there still 
fresh oysters on every doorstep? 

LucREZiA. (Pointing to the letter in her hand) 
I know all, all. 

Heine. Rivalling the Omnipotent. Does she 
mean George or God? 

LucREZiA. Madonna, what have you done to him? 

George. What have I done to him? Perhaps 
the greatest thing any woman can do for any man. 
I have given him his soul. 

LucREZiA. It is all written here. (And she waves 
her letter in George's face) This friend of Pietro's 
knows the lies your heart hides and has told me all. 
[138] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Caro mio Pietro. (And to stifle back her tears her 
voice goes louder) Pietro I 

(And the door of the little drawing-room 
opens and Pagello enters, an open hook in 
his hand) 
Pagello. (On the threshold^ not seeing Lucre- 
zia) Did some one call me? 

Heine. Yes, Doctor, a voice from beyond the 
Alps. 

Pagello. I do not understand this poetical way 
you have of saying things. Ah, George, good even- 
ing. 

George. (A hit mournfully but nevertheless 
leading in the right direction) "Good evening"? — 
No, my friend, not good evening but alas, good-bye. 
Pagei^lo. (As usual a hit mystified) What? 
George. (Unable to resist the cadence) Good- 
bye — forever. 

(And in a second all is clear because as 

he looks up for an explanation he sees Lu- 

CREZiA and he stumbles back against the sofa 

and the booh falls from his hand) 

Pagello. San Giovanni, — San Pietro, — San 

Paolo, — San Luichele — 

Heine. (Low to Buloz) This is a splendid 
chance to learn the Italian calendar. 

BuiiOz. (His eyes on George) Will she be 
strong enough to bear it? 

Pagello. Santa Maria, you — you — Where have 
you come from? 

[139] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

George. From Italy, Pietro, moonlit Italy. 

(And in the next room Chopin can he 
heard improvising) 

George. Ah, Madame, life has taught me much. 
I have wronged you, wronged you deeply. 

Lucrezia. {To Pagello) Come away, she is 
beginning to talk. 

Pagello. {Hardly recovered from the shocJc) 
How did you get here, Lucrezia? 

Lucrezia. You have a friend in Paris, Pietro- 
ninni. One who hates this George Sand. {And she 
again points to the letter) 

George. Madame, alas, there are many such. 
The rich because I would enrich the poor, the wise 
because I pity fools. 

BuLOZ. {Aside to Heine). She is magnificent. 

Heine. Yes, perhaps more so than you think. 

George. In Venice, Madame, I wronged you. In 
Paris I ask your pardon. {She steps toward Lucre- 
zia but the girl, protecting Pagello, hacks into a 
corner) Ah, Madame, do not shrink from me. 
Love has taught me humility. Though it breaks 
my heart I give him back to you. 

Lucrezia. {Shrieking) You do not give him. 
He comes. He comes. 

{And at this moment Liszt's head pops in 
at the door) 

Liszt. Shhh ! my dears ! If you are playing cha- 
rades be a little quieter. You're disturbing the 
music Chopin is improvising. {And then he lowers 
[140] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

his voice to a whisper and hushes them with his 
lifted finger) Piano! Piano! (Then he sees Lu- 
CREZiA a7id begins thoughtlessly to bubble over) Ah 
— so, George, — she — you — 

{But George is ready and suddenly she 
turns to him and speaks as though nothing 
but the answer to her question mattered) 
George. Isn't that Thalberg playing? It's like 
his touch. 

Liszt. (Swiftly, almost angrily) No, no. Cho- 
pin. Only Chopin can play like that. Listen, ah, 
that phrasing — such delicacy, such nuance. Listen 
that modulation. 

George. And can you modulate so beautifully, 
my friend .f^ 

(And the message has registered not un- 
seen by Heine) 
Liszt. (His whole manner changing looking at 
Lucrezia) What a beautiful girl! Is she an artist 
come to dance the Tarantula.? 

Heine. No, she is an avenging fury whose wings 
are clipped. 

George. (Peering through him) That is very 
cryptic, Heine. 

Heine. (Smiling back) Perhaps, George, but 
not too deep for you to read. 

(There is a pause. Chopin has reached 
a brilliant passage and instinctively they all 
stop to listen) 

[141] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

Liszt. Ah ! Beauty made audible. Singing star- 
light. 

LucREZiA. (In utter disgust) Monkey! 

Liszt. Ah ! (His hand lifted in ecstatic admira- 
tion) The moment's inspiration — 

George. (As the music swells and dies) The 
heritage of all the years. 

(And Liszt, softli/ closing the door behind 
him, goes back into the music room) 

LucREZiA. (To Pagello) Come away, Pietro, 
these people are all crazy. They rattle in their 
heads. 

Pagello. (At a loss. It is all too much for 
him) George — 

George. Go, Pietro, I shall be brave. My bless- 
ings follow you, my friend. Life must be answered 
— youth be heard. She is Sarah come from the 
South to call you. I am as Hagar cast without. 
But in the wilderness I shall find my peace. My 
little Ishmaels are calling me. 

Heine. She's a little mixed, but what difference 
does it make — they're Italians. 

George. Under the trees at Nohant I shall find 
forgetfulness and rest. Do not forget me, Pietro. 
(And she bends over to kiss him a last 
farewell) 

LucREZiA. (In a corner, her hands twitching) 
Madonna mia. She's a witch. 

George. No, no, Pietro. (Thru habit and not 
knowing what to do he is about to kiss her on the 
[142] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

lips) No, no, not on the lips — the brow, my friend, 
the brow, as you would kiss a sister. (And thus 
nobly and sadly they embrace) Good-bye, my 
brother. 

{And then Lucrezia is over next to hirriy 
her arms thru his and they are moving to- 
wards the door) 
Pagello. (Suddenly stopping) But — (And in- 
stinctively his hand goes to his pocket) I — I (And 
at a loss just how to put it) I am but a poor prac- 
titioner. 

George. (Thoughtfully) Pietro, it seems to me 
I've heard you say that same thing once before. 

(There is an embarrassed pause but in an 
instant she is ready) 
George. Of course, of course. Buloz, advance 
me a thousand francs. They may need it. You 
shall have two books for it instead of one. The writ- 
ing will help me to forget. Go with them, remem- 
ber they are strangers in this whirling world of 
Paris. 

Heine. (With significance) Strange as two 
babies at a ball. 

(And as Pagello comes over tenderly to 
shake her hand in gratitude, Lucrezia keeps 
hold of his other hand with a sort of instinc- 
tive feeling that he won*t be safe until out 
of sight of George) 
Heine. (Aside to Buloz) Michael Angelo alone 
could do justice to that group. 

[143] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

George. Come, Buloz, see these two children on 
their way. You remember the coach for Lyons 
leaves the Post Hotel at nine. 

(And she is over at the door with Pagello 
and Lucrezia) 
Heine. (Sotto voce to Buloz as he moves to- 
wards them) It was on this very coach that she 
started with de Musset. 
Buloz. Well, what of it.? 

Heine. If this sort of thing goes on the people 
of the diligence should make her an allowance. 

George. Good-bye, my brother. (And then even 
more beautifully) Good-bye, my new-found sister. 
(And at this moment the Chopin improvi- 
sation is over and a hurst of applause sounds 
from the next room) 
George. (Unperturbed) Love will protect you. 
(And she stretches out her hand to Pietro 
and he bends over and hisses it. And she of- 
fers her hand to Lucrezia but the girl re- 
fuses it and suddenly turns and faces her) 
Lucrezia. (All the passion in her spilling over) 
Corpo di Cristo, I will not take your hand. I am 
an Italian and I do not forget. Dio ! And I do 
not forgive. What you have stolen I have taken 
back. Maladetta! What you have taught him I 
shall profit by. 

(And half dragging, half embracing her re- 
captured Doctor, they are gone and Buloz 
with them. George for a moment stands 
[144] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

looking after them a sad little smile in her 
eyes. Then she turns to Heine) 

George. Ah, Heine, youth is the one thing worth 
having longest. She is glorious. Mark my words, 
my friend, the world shall yet be saved by women. 

Heine. Then as their first priestess let me ten- 
der you my homage. {And he gallantly kisses her 
hand) If you ever cease writing, George, go on 
the stage. Melpomene herself could not have played 
it better. 

George. Yes — I wrote that letter, Heine. 

Heine. Ah, my prophetic soul. 

George. Poor Pietro could never have managed 
it alone. 

Heine. (Seriously) George, I have ever loved 
you. 

George. (Lightly) Too late, too late, my Ger- 
man. My soul is turning gray. 

Heine. That is why my admiration for you 
means the more. Tell them to carve upon your 
tombstone: "Here lies George the indefatigable." 

George. That doesn't interest me. I won't be 
there to read it. 

Heine. You'll probably outlive us all. 

George. No, Heine, you are wrong. (And then 
as irrefutable proof) Fve just had my old mat- 
tresses recovered and I regret it. It wasn't worth 
while for the little time I still contemplate living. 
I am going to an island in the Mediterranean to die. 
Wait and see, time will tell. 

[145] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

Heine. Time tells nothing. Leave it to your 
biographers. 

George. (TJwugh a minute ago life was over) 
What! Never! I'll forestall their lies and some 
day, like Rousseau, I'll confess in twenty volumes. 
(Then sadly) My heart is a graveyard. 

Heine. Don't you mean a cemetery, George.-^ 

{And at this moment a lackey opens the 
door from the hall and Alfred de Musset 
enters, his mother leaning on his arm. It is 
their first meeting since Italy) 
Mme. de Musset. (Stepping forward and cor- 
dially taking George's hand) Alfred has told me 
all. (And George is as near hysterical surprise as 
she has ever come in her life) 

Mme. de Musset. A mother's thanks for all that 
you have done for him. Yes, I know how patiently 
you nursed him thru his sunstroke and sat at his 
bedside bathing his brow and giving him his milk. 

George. (Equal even to this) I promised you 
that I would care for him. 

Mme. de Musset. And you have, you have. A 
mother's gratitude goes out to you. 

(And in her enthusiasm she hends over and 
kisses George, and Heine, who has been 
watching Alfred — who stands like a monu- 
ment trying to solve a riddle — comes to the 
rescue) 
Heine. (Bowing to Mme. de Musset) May I 
have the honor of escorting you to the Baron .^^ 

[146] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Mme. de Musset. (Taking his arm) We are 
very late. 

(Again the piano sounds from the music 
room) 

George. (A little more enthusiastically than she 
realizes) Ah, that is Chopin. Liszt is to play later 
in the evening. 

Mme. de Musset. Are you coming in, Madame? 

George. No, I shall sit here alone to listen. I 
am not well, Madame. I do not like the crowd. 

Mme. de Musset. (As she reaches the door) I 
shall see you later then, at supper? 

Heine. At supper, — of course. 

George. If I stay, but alas, Madame, I am so 
spent. (And she heaves a deep sigh) I do not know 
what will happen to me. 

(As indeed she doesnH. And George and 
Alfred are left alone) 

George. (Sadly) That was kind of Heine. I 
wanted to see you, Alfred, once before I left Paris. 
I'm very tired. 

Alfred. You're overworking. You should break 
with Buloz. " He expects too much of you. 

George. No, it isn't that. (And then slowly) 
I have just sent Pietro back to Venice. 

Alfred. (As the memories stir) Ah — 

George. All is over. It is the end, — the end. 

Alfred. Go down to the country, you will rest 
there out in the open. It is quiet under the trees. 

[M7] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

George. {Wearily) It is a quiet deeper than 
the silence of Nohant that I seek. 

Alfred. You mean — 

George. Yes, my friend. I welcome it as a long 
rest after a too long journey. I can no longer live 
with dignity. 

Alfred. You've been like this before. Why, by 
to-morrow — 

George. No. No. That was long ago. (A 
nocturne of exquisite melancholy sounds from the 
music room) To-morrow bears but the same sad 
burden as to-day. I shall miss only the sound of 
my children's voices. Solange is so sweet — you 
should see her, Alfred. I can hardly keep from 
weeping when I kiss her. I shall miss my children 
and the feel of the wind in my face. I adore the 
wind. It is the symbol of perpetual energy. 

Alfred. Blowing nowhere and forever — ^but such 
is life. 

George. {Sadly. It is her tragic moment) And 
such is love. We are like leaves tossed in the wind 
of desire. Do you remember that night in Venice 
in the window? I laughed at you and your fear of 
fate. But you were right, Alfred. Destiny has 
piped and I have danced — and now I'm tired. 

Alfred. And love.-^ 

George. {And from her heart comes a cry of bit- 
terness) Love, alas, I have called to love and it 
has answered me with lies. I am done with that 
delusion. It is nature's trick to make us fools. 
[148] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

It is empty, empty. You remember you gave me 
a message at parting in Venice. Now I shall give 
you one. (And she holds out her hand to him) 
Store up the gold of life in youth, my friend, whilst 
you can still believe this lie that men call love. 

Alfred. (Bending over her hand and kissing it) 
Good-bye. 

(And he goes into the conservatory and 

as George is about to sit down on the long 

sofa near the fireplace she sees the hook that 

PiETRO has dropped and she picks it up) 

George. (Perhaps she is weeping a little. She 

read the title) "Lelia." Faithful to the last. Finis. 

Finis. (And she glances toward the little room 

through which Pagello and Lucrezia have gone) 

Adieu, Pagello! (And she lets the little book fall to 

the table and then she looks toward the conservatory 

through which de Musset has gone) Adieu, Freddo. 

(And then she looks into the fire as though bidding 

a last farewell) Adieu, love ! 

(And she sits gazing for a moment vnto the 
flame. A pause. And a little later a tremen- 
dous burst of applause sounds from the music 
room. The nocturne is finished. Another 
sound of voices^ then more applause and then 
Chopin bursts in from the music room fol- 
lowed by Liszt ; and the three young girls all 
aflutter are crowded in the doorway. From 
her deep seat next the fireplace George is al- 
most invisible) 

[149] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

Chopin. (Irritable, excited) No, no. No more. 
I'm tired. 

Liszt. The humming fools. Give them the B Mi- 
nor Scherzo, Frederick. 

Chopin. No, no. No more. No more. 

Mlle. de R01.ANDE and Mlle. de Fleury. Ah! 
Ah! 

MiiLE. DE Latour. He's probably tired. Look 
how white he is. 

Mlle. de Fleury. Have you ever heard any- 
thing so divine.? 

MiiiiE. Rolande. Positively beguiling, my dear. 
I— 

Chopin. (Low to Liszt) Get them away. Get 
them away. 

Liszt. (With exaggerated politeness) Ladies, 
your pardon. 

(And he slowly closes the door. And the 
three desmoiselles sink hack into the music 
room. 

Chopin. It distresses me to play before a crowd 
like that. 

Liszt. Do you know that in the middle of your 
most beautiful pianissimi one of those fat hyenas 
sneezed .f^ 

Chopin. I didn't notice it. 

Liszt. (Amazed) What, why I hear everything 
when I perform. 

Chopin. I like best playing for my beloved Poles. 
They are breathless when an artist plays. 
[150] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

(More applause from the next room. Then 
Mlle. de Fleury and Mlle. Rolande are 
hack) 
Mlle. de Fleuuy (To Chopin) Monsieur, the 
people are clamoring for you. 

Chopin. Ladies, you must excuse me. 
Mlle. Rolande. But we beseech you. 
Chopin. You must pardon me. I am sorry to 
refuse. {And as he turm away he unknowingly 
drops his handkerchief. The applause sounds 
again) Franz, for God's sake go in and appease 
them. I want to be alone. Alone. 

{And the two girls flutter up to Liszt with 
exclamations of admiration. And as Chopin 
turn^ from them barely concealing his irrita- 
tion, Mlle. de Fleuuy swiftly lifts his hand- 
kerchief from the floor and with a look as 
though she were robbing a shrine of the sa- 
cred ''bambino,'' she stuffs the precious relic 
into her bodice and George who is watching 
smiles. This is unseen by all the others, 
MLI.E. RoLANDE and Liszt are at the door. 
Then Mlle. de Fleury joins them, and as 
they enter the music room Liszt is greeted 
with a salm of approval. The door is closed 
and then Chopin begins walking up and 
down. He is warm. He wants to mop his 
brow. He is nervous. He looks at a picture. 
Then again for his handkerchief. It is gone. 
This increases his irritation. He sits down, 

[1511 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

still feeling in his pockets; and then — and 
it sounds as if it came from nowheres — 
George speaks. And as she does so Chopin 
jumps up not knowing from whence it came) 

George. Here, take mine. {And she hands him 
her handkerchief) 

Chopin. {Taking it) Ah, you. Thank you, 
Madame. 

George. Sit down, you must be very tired. Sit 
down and rest. 

Chopin. Yes. Yes. 

George. I can't imagine anything more fright- 
ful than having to face a room of people like that. 
It must be so much more wonderful to play for two 
or three. 

Chopin. I like best to play for only one. That 
is when I can "speak." 

George. Yes — 

Chopin. I always choose some one to whom I 
play. To-night there was no one in there who in- 
terested me. 

George. Your art is the most fragile of all the 
arts. It is born of the moment and as it lives it dies. 

Chopin. Yes. Yes. {He begins walking about 
again) 

George. Oh, don't be alarmed, I'm not going to 
talk music. Would you like some champagne.? 
Shall I call a lackey.? 

Chopin. No. Let us sit quietly for a while. 

{And they do so^ listening to the music) 
[152] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Chopin. (After a moment) That is a beautiful 
melody but in a second he will spoil it with his fire- 
works. 

(George doesn't answer. Then after a 
little while he goes on) 

Chopin. I have never read any of your books. 

George. (Unconcerned) No? 

Chopin. No. Listen! Music should have more 
soul and less speed. (A pause) You do not answer 
me. (Another pause) You are so different from 
other women. You seem to know how to be still. 

George. (Smiling) I am listening to you. 

Chopin. Some day I will come and play for you. 

George. (Unmoved) Yes.^^ 

Chopin. (A bit piqued at her lack of enthusi- 
asm) I do not do that often. 

George. No, I am sure of that. 

(There is another pause. Then George 
speaks. Something stirs in the ashes of her 
heart) 

George. Why have you avoided me since you've 
been in Paris .^^ 

Chopin. I was afraid of you. 

George. Afraid .^^ If that is a compliment it is 
too roundabout. 

Chopin. From a distance you seemed, shall I 
say — (He hesitates for a word) 

George. (Lightly) Formidable. 

Chopin. No — er — (Then he gets it) compli- 
cated. 

[153] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

George. You have chosen badly. I am really 
very simple. (Then with a shake of her head be- 
cause she really means it) Too shuple for my good. 
{And he looJcs at her and she turns away 
and gazes into the fire. Another pause) 

Chopin. Weren't you at the Marquis de Custine's 
last Saturday.'' 

George. (Almost carelessly) Yes. 

Chopin. I didn't meet you. 

George. No, I left early. 

Chopin. But women always want to meet me. 

George. You're very shy. 

Chopin. I thought I saw you looking at me when 
I was playing. 

George. And so beautifully — 

Chopin. I was dreaming of some one long ago. 

George. Yes. 

Chopin. Why did you leave so early.? 

George. I went home to work. 

Chopin. At night. 

George. Yes. Till four in the morning. 

Chopin. My art too is exacting. Sometimes I 
practice ten hours a day. 

George. (As she glances at him, she is thinking 
of her writing but, alas, how often people mean one 
thing and say another) I have been practicing all 
my life. 

Chopin. One of these days I must read some- 
thing you've written. 

George. Why? 
[154] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Chopin. I do not read much. 
George. There are too many books. It is life 
that really matters. (A note of sadness comes into 
her voice) Life! 

Chopin. You are sad, Madame? 

George. Alas, my friend, I have suffered. 

(She looks at him tenderly, then hack into 
the flames) 
Chopin. {Slowly. It is to very few he would say 
this, hut she is different) I understand, Madame. 
I too have lived. 

George. {Expectantly) Yes? 

{A pause. She waits for him to go on hut 
he is silent) 
George. Some day, perhaps, you will care to 

tell me? 

Chopin. {Perhaps he is a little embarrassed) 
Listen! Liszt is playing the "Libestraum." Less 
than Beethoven — but 'twill serve. Listen! 

George. Yes. You are right. I too cannot 
abide these people who are an iEohan harp thru 
which their grief is forever moaning. {She is in 
danger. She is heginning to forget herself. She 
glances at him. He is listening to the music) It is 
a love that has lasted long, my friend? {Her hand 

is on his) 

Chopin. Since my boyhood. I do not know why 

I tell you this. 

George. {Very tenderly) That is the only love 
that matters. So you too have been lonely. 

[155] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

Chopin. I've been alone for all my life. 

George. That is the sad melody that runs 
through life. We are forever seeking companion- 
ship whilst in reality we are forever alone, alone. 

(And her voice drifts away on the sweet 
sadness of the word) 

Chopin. Yes. I must come and play for you. 

George. I shall listen with my soul. 

{A little flame stirs in the ashes. Is it the 
spell of the music that moves her?) 

Chopin. You are not like what I thought. 

George. No ? 

Chopin. I imagined you were always talking 
philosophy. 

George. That's what the world thinks of liter- 
ary people. The truth is I seldom mention books. 

Chopin. Franz told me that you were the clev- 
erest woman in Paris. 

George. I thought he was my friend. 

Chopin. There are days when I cannot abide 
Paris and these crowds of brilliant people. (He 
looks towards the music room) 

George. Yes, I know what you mean. I too 
have felt that. Why don't you go away? 

Chopin. I would but though I dislike people, I 
don't like being all alone. It gives me a feeling of 
peace to know there is some one to whom I can go — 
some one who will understand. 

George. (For the first time looking him straight 
in the eyes) Yes. That is the perfect companion. 
[156] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Some one you know is there and still never feel 
about you. I have tried many but all have failed, 
even Alfred. 

Chopin. Does such a one exist .^^ 

George. In dreams perhaps. 

{And she is languorously fanning herself 
whilst in the music room Liszt plays *'The 
Lorelei') 

Chopin. What a delicious odor. 

George. "Lily of Japan." Pagello bought it 
for me in the Palais Royal with his last two francs. 
But the odor was too strong for him. That's why 
he's run away to Venice. 

Chopin. (Looking at her) With such a person 
far away — 

George. {Lightly but still with a faint sense of 
suggestion) In a blue isle in the Mediterranean 
shall we say? I too have been dreaming of the 
South. 

Chopin. {Smiling hack at her fantasy) Yes. 
Why not? The Mediterranean — 

George. {Leaning back a little, her tongue wet- 
ting her lips goes on with the delicious nonsense) 
Where the tropic palms droop in the odorous shad- 
ows and the scarlet flamingoes sleep in the sun. 

{She likes this and begins jotting it down 
on her fan) 

Chopin. What are you doing? 

George. {Almost sprightly) I just thought of 

[157] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

what I must order for luncheon to-morrow. (And 
she repeats as she writes) — scarlet flamingoes. 

Chopin. Flamingoes for lunch? 

George. Why not? Perhaps you will come and 
dine with me. 

Chopin. Perhaps. You are the one woman in 
Paris who doesn't bore me. 

George. (Laughing) What! Go back to your 
island, my friend. 

Chopin. No. Do not think I am jesting. If 
for a while I could break away from all this clever- 
ness. (And again he waves his hand with a gesture 
of disgust towards the music room) There in this 
mythical island I could realize my dreams and give 
to the world all the music that struggles and mounts 
in my heart. 

George. (Whimsically/) And if you go I shall 
follow you and lie quietly listening among the ferns. 
(He looks at her. She looks back. There is a pause. 
Then jestingly/, laughingly) Or perhaps we might 
go together. 

Chopin. (Slowly) Why not? Why not? 

George. (Her hand agaiji touching his. Her 
voice low) Why not? (The light of the fire shines 
about them) Some day, perhaps. (Half propheti- 
cally, half in subconscious hope) Some day. 

(And Chopin sits looking at her and she 
leans back, her eyes slightly closed) 

Chopin. I am so tired. 
[158] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

George. (Leaning towards him) Shall I drive 
you home? 

Chopin. Would you? (And he smiles at her 
wanly, sweetly) 

George. Poor boy, you are very tired, aren't 
you? (A pause, she is closer to him) There is 
something about you so like my little son. 

Chopin. Yes ? 

George. And do you know what I should do 
if you were he? 

Chopin. No. 

George. This, my poor tired child — this. 

(And like a mother — indeed love and the 
mother in her are mixed beyond comprehen- 
sion — she takes him in her arms and kisses 
him and the next instant she awakes to the 
calamitous rashness of her deed) 

George. What have I done? What have I 
done? Can you ever forgive me? 

Chopin. (Bending towards her) Why not? 

George. (Springing up as once before she has 
done in Venice) Now I realize it all. For weeks 
the ecstasy of your music has sustained my fainting 
spirit. All the while I have loved you, loved you 
as I have never loved before, loved when I thought 
that love was over forever — and I haven't known. 
And now that I have told you, good-bye. (She 
rushes from him) 

Chopin. (His voice low) Wait! Wait! You 
mustn't leave me now, now at the beginning. 

[159] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

George. (Struggling with her heart) No, no. 
I am done with love. I have prayed to love and it 
has come to hurt me. No, no. Not again, not 
again. I am through with love forever. 

Chopin. (His arm is about her) This is the be- 
ginning. We have found each other in our loneli- 
ness. You have brought peace to mj heart. (His 
lips are close to hers) George! George, nothing 
else matters. This is the beginning. 

(And he kisses her. A pause. And then 
she breaks from him. There are tears in her 
eyes. For a moment she stands watching 
him, the old wonder ever new breaks in her 
heart. He comes over to her. His voice is 
very gentle) 
Chopin. You know you said that you would 
drive me home. 

George. (And all that she has forgotten and 
all that she hopes are in the words) You mean.^^ 
Chopin. If you are willing — yes. 

(And again they are in each other* s arms. 

Tableau! From beyond sounds the music. 

She has lost her head. This is rash. Some 

one may come in. She breaks away from him. 

He follows her) 

George. (She looks about her) No, no. This 

is not the Mediterranean, There are too many 

lackeys. (She steps towards the door) 

Chopin. But aren't you going to drive me home.'' 
[160] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

George. And if I shoufd tell the coachman to 
drive to this island in the sea? 

Chopin. I should follow you. There is too much 
art in Paris. Come. 

George. {Swiftly) A moment. A word to 
Buloz lest he wait for me. 

{And impetuously she tears out the fly leaf 
from the copy of "Lelia" lying on the table 
and scrawls some words and then) 
George. Chopin, we may be driving to the 
world's end. 

Chopin. To the sound of music. Come. 

{And they rush out as very cautiously 
from the music room enters Mlle. de La- 
tour with her autograph album in her hand 
followed by Mlle. Rolande) 
Mi>LE. DE Latour. {LooMng about) Why, I 
thought she was in here. 

MI.LE. RoLANDE. Probably they're in the supper 
room. 

M1.1.E. DE Latour. I'm going to ask her. I may 
never see her again. I don't care what Agnes says. 
{And they run out through the little draw- 
ing-room to the applause which sounds from 
the music room as Heine opens the door and 
comes in) 
Heine. {Calling) Frederick! Where is he? 

{And BuLOZ bustles in from the hall) 
Heine. Where's Chopin? 
Buloz. Gone! , 

[161] 



MADAME SAND [Act III] 

Heine. Gone! The Baroness was hoping he 
would play again. Liszt seems tied to the piano. 
Nothing c-vn budge him. 
BuiiOZ. No. 

Heine. I'll ask George to read a chapter of 
"Lelia" ( He takes the hook from the table) ; that 
will quiet liim. 

BuiiOz. She's gone. 
Heine. What? She too. 

BuiiOZ. I saw them leave together. ! 

Heine. Together? (He looks surprised) 
BuLoz. Yes. Why not? Can't a man and a 
woman dri e from a party without the world com- 
ing to an end? She left me this. (He points to 
the note i:-: his hand) It's written on the half title 
of "Lelia." 

Heine. Perhaps you can print it in the Revue. 
BuLoz. (With a quick look) Not yet. Read it, 
Heine. 

(And Heine does so and in his amazement 
he lets the note flutter to the floor) 
BuLOZ. iVnd how long this time, Heine? 
Heine. How long? How long? Does it matter? 
Think of the copy it will make and how the world 
will revel in it. And now — diet's go in to supper. 

(And as they exit Mlle. de Fleury comes 
in from the music room on her way to join 
Mlle. de Latour and Mlle. Rolande. 
Suddenly she sees the note which Heine has 
let fcdii (She picks it up) 

ri62] 



[Act III] MADAME SAND 

Mlle. de Fleury. (With swimming eyes as she 
reads it) "Good-night, Buloz, don't wait for me. 
Life is love. That's all that matters. I've taken 
Chopin home to put the poor, tired boy to bed." 

{And she clutches the note to her trem- 
bling heart) 
Mli.e. de Fleury. (Tenderly, lit with the thrill- 
ing romance of it all) How beautiful ! How beau- 
tiful! 

(And the curtain falls as Liszt, the untir- 
ing, thunders from the music room the be- 
ginning of a brilliant Polonaise) 



[163] 



A NOTE ON THE MUSIC FOR "MADAME 

SAND" 

All the entr'acte music should be of the period of 
the play but the overture must be Mozart's "Cosi 
Fan Tutte." The Italian title of this sparkling 
music when rendered into the balder English and 
reading, "Thus Do All Women," delicately sug- 
gests that George is not the only member of her 
gentler sex who might have acted as she did. In 
fact, given her "talent" perhaps any woman would, 
that is, if she could. 

Chopin, by his music, is to be subtly anticipated 
throughout the comedy. After each entr'acte group, 
in that wonderful moment, when the lights are 
dim, echoes of his music should be heard; for the 
beginning of Act I the gay little Posthumous Ma- 
zurka in F Major, for the beginning of Act II the 
languorous Prelude in B Flat, Opus 28, No. 21 ; 
and for Act III the curtain lifts on the three prat- 
tling demoiselles to the charming strains of the little 
A Major Prelude. 

One number of the entr'acte music for Act II 
should be an arrangement of a group of the tink- 
ling tunes heard throughout the Venice episode at 
the "serenata" which is supposed to be in full swing 

[165] 



MADAME SAND 

under the lovers' window on the Grand Canal. For 
Mrs. Fiske's production authentic melodies, such as 
one hears at these floating concerts in Italy, were 
used. 

Throughout Act III Liszt and Chopin are heiard 
in the music room improvising on themes which 
later in their careers they are to use for some of 
their most famous compositions. During George's 
first meeting with Alfred, after the ending of their 
love affair in Venice, we hear Chopin playing the 
second theme of the Posthumous Valse in G Flat, 
Opus 70, No. 1. During her farewell scene with 
de Musset, in which, out of her broken heart she 
speaks of the disillusionment of love, Chopin is 
heard playing the G Major Nocturn, Opus 37, No. 
2. The sudden break, as it actually occurs in the 
music, is used to denote Chopin's distress and comes 
just at the moment before he rushes from the piano 
quite unknowingly into George's arms. For the 
opening of George's love scene with Chopin, Jiszt, 
unconscious of what is taking place in the little 
drawing-room, is accompanying the dawning love of 
Chopin and George to the romantic strains of the 
third "Liebestraum" in A Flat. Chopin's words: 
"but in a moment he will spoil it with his fireworks," 
are spoken just before the famous pyrotechnic fig- 
uration which is the despair of all amateurs who 
lovingly flay the "Liebestraum." When Chopin 
and George, in this crowded world of Paris, find each 
other in their loneliness, Liszt is playing the theme 
[166] 



MADAME SAND 

which later in life he is to use for his song arrange- 
ment of Heine's ''Lorelei" ; and as the comedy ends 
and Mile, de Fleury presses George's tell-tale note 
to her trembling heart, Liszt, "because no one has 
been able to drag him from the piano," is still heard 
playing, at this moment, the dazzling opening 
phrases of his second Polonaise in E Major. 



[167] 



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